


Size and Sun

by story_monger



Series: Triptych [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Dysphoria, Curtain Fic, Fem Dean, Fem Sam, Gen, Team Free Will, Trans Female Character, Trans Sam Winchester, fem cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 05:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3162788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/story_monger/pseuds/story_monger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once, an angel witnessed humanity and fell in love. A lot happens later, but that's the crux of the thing.</p>
<p>Sequel to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2773949">Gold and Light</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2903354">Mantle and Drum</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Size and Sun

Castiel walks down a yellow-grassed slope with her hands in her coat pockets and her wings half open. The sky is cloudless, the air all but ripples with summer heat, and the humidity cloys her borrowed lungs. Castiel could cut off the sensations, but they’re a welcome difference from Purgatory’s gray light.

At the bottom of the slope, two figures bend low in labor. Castiel slows, then stops completely and watches them work. They both have long hair twisted in knots on top of their heads, and one has stripped down to shorts and a white cotton bra.

The only noise is the rhythmic sound of shovels spearing into dirt, dirt landing in its pile, and a high buzzing from an insect hidden somewhere in the grass. The two figures work with something approaching harmony in their respective movements. It’s pleasing to watch.

Castiel lifts her eyes and follows the field, which is baked yellow from the sun. It lasts for several miles, which is good. But at the very edges of Castiel’s line of sight it becomes charred, and a paint smear of livid fire roars beneath a black sky.

Castiel looks back down to the two women digging and decides that Sam can’t see the fire from where she’s standing. Perhaps Castiel can keep it that way.

The Winchesters pause. They bow their heads together before Sam hauls herself out of the pit while Dean bends low and disappears from view. Sam crouches at the pit’s edge and takes a swig of water from a plastic water bottle. Castiel ought to walk away, ought to hide in the edges of this dream, but she’s also drawn by how at ease the Winchesters look in this memory, even if they’re sweating and panting. They still look comfortable with each other, comfortable with their work, comfortable with their tools. If fate couldn’t spare them a living mother and a happily ignorant life, Castiel thinks, it should have let them continue to salt and burn corpses in peace.

Dean emerges from the pit and says something. It must be an affirmation that they’ve found what they were looking for because Sam pulls a book of matches from her back pocket. Dean grabs a can of gasoline and sprinkles it in the pit. She follows up with a can of salt. Sam sets the matches alight, tosses it into the pit, and they both stand with hands on hips while the remains burn.

Suddenly, Sam’s shoulders jerk forward, and she lifts her head. She twists her head around until her eyes find Castiel. They narrow.

Castiel falters and tucks her wings closer to her back. She turns and walks briskly away. She hears a scuffle of footsteps and picks up her pace. If she had any confidence she could fly out of this dream, she would. But the path between Sam’s mind and Purgatory is a fickle one and Castiel isn’t sure that she’d find it.

A hand lands on Castiel’s shoulder and whirls her around with surprising strength. Castiel tilts her head up to find Sam in different clothes than what she had on at the bottom of the slope. Her nostrils are flared.

“Finally,” Sam breathes. Her hand remains on Castiel’s shoulder. “I’ve been looking for days.”

“Days?” Castiel echoes. “Why?“

Sam releases Castiel’s shoulder and digs one hand into her hair.

“Dean’s in trouble,” she says, immediately followed by, “I’m getting you out of Purgatory. Right now.”

“Oh.” Castiel licks her lips and ignores the second part. “Is the trouble like the witches?”

“Nothing like that. I—it’s complicated.“ Sam glances down the slope, to where dream-Dean is still watching the corpse burn. Castiel watches Sam’s gaze lift to the memories of the Cage, then skirt away. Finally, Sam squints up at the sun. “I remember this July,” she says. “It was miserable. C’mon, there’s some shade up here.”

Sam drops her hand from her hair and leads Castiel the rest of the way up the slope. A copse of trees stands at the top like a crown. Among the trees they find a stone shelter, like a hollow sphere that has been cut in half. It holds an altar, cross, and Virgin Mary statuette. When Sam and Castiel duck inside, the air notably drops a few degrees. It smells like damp and moss and limestone.

“This was at a convent,” Sam explains, sitting cross-legged on the shelter’s floor. Castiel sits across from Sam. She remains silent and watches Sam wipe sweat from her forehead. She smells deeply human: salty and musky.

“Dean won’t wake up,” Sam says without preamble. “The last time she was awake was two and a half days ago.”

Castiel leans back.

“What happened?”

“We don’t know,” Sam says. “It’s been happening gradually. I’ve been trying to do some research on hypersomnia. Caused by drug or alcohol abuse. Head injury.” She shrugs weakly. “But I can’t pin it down. I mean, have you been in her dreams recently? Have you seen anything?” Sam asks. Castiel remains silent. “Cas?”

“I don’t get pulled into Dean’s dreams nearly as often as I get pulled into yours,” Castiel says. She keeps her eyes fixed on the ground. “Whenever I’ve been there, I’ve seen standard dreams. Of Purgatory, usually.”

“But there’s nothing unusual? Nothing that pings on your radar?” Sam urges. Castiel shakes her head and doesn’t mention that she looks at that radar as little as possible. She doesn’t think Sam would react well.

Sam huffs and looks out at the grassy slope. Her hands have coalesced into fists.

“You’re going to have to help me,” Sam says to the slope. Castiel’s wings flare. As if she felt it, Sam refocuses on Castiel. “And to do that I need you out of Purgatory.”

Castiel stares at her.

Sam bites her lower lip and, as if in a spur of decision, she reaches out and grabs Castiel’s loose hands. Sam has large hands, and Jenny’s are a little smaller than average.

“Okay,” Sam’s grip tightens. “I know you don’t want to leave Purgatory. And I just…do you not think you deserve to be saved?” Castiel all but feels the punch to her gut.

She swallows and stares at the fold of her coat.

“Cas. Hey.” Castiel doesn’t want to look. “We want you back,” Sam says.

Castiel exhales.

“ _Don’t_ say that,” she yanks her hands away. Sam’s brow lowers.

“Then this isn’t about you,” she says. “This is about Dean, who’s been sleeping for almost three days straight, and I can’t figure out what the _hell_ is wrong with her.” Sam stops to inhale to deeply and pull at her mouth. Castiel studiously keeps her attention on the limestone. Sam’s voice starts up again. “You know what she told me the last time we talked?” Silence. “Do you?”

“Of course I don’t,” Castiel murmurs.

“She said to find you. She said— _Castiel look at me_.” Castiel’s breath hitches when Sam’s hands bury in her coat lapels and tug at her. “She said to get you out of Purgatory first. Because you deserve to get out. And in case you missed it the first time around, _I need your help_.”

Castiel looks. Sam’s soul is churning, frothing green-gold at the edges. Castiel can remember a handful of other times Sam’s soul has looked like this; all associated with concern, anger, fear. Castiel had seen it burst forth when she first met Sam via Castiel’s then-new vessel, then retreat once Sam realized she stood before the angel who had rescued her sister. That had been when Castiel was still a foot soldier. Back when Dean Winchester had been her ward. Her mission. Words like ‘friend’ and ‘teacher’ wouldn’t come until later.

When, Castiel suddenly wonders, had she stopped being Dean’s protector, or Sam’s for that matter? Too long ago, probably.

Castiel looks down at Sam’s hands on her jacket lapels and exhaled slowly.

 “How were you planning on doing this, exactly?” Castiel asks in a stiff voice.

Sam’s hands loosen and her shoulder visibly lower. Her breathing is still hard. “I don’t think there’s a third party trying to pull you out of Purgatory.”

“No,” Castiel agrees. She looks Sam in the eye. “I think it’s you and Dean.” She doesn’t elucidate with the patterns she’s noticed; that her tugs into the Winchesters’ dreams are almost invariably preceded by their prayers. Sam’s are hopeful; Dean’s are sad.

Sam’s mouth lifts at one corner. “See, that fits in with what I’ve been reading.”

“What’s that?”

“Have you ever heard that you can drag beings through some pretty tight paths if they’re connected firmly enough to an anchor? Like a needle with a thread.”

“I’ve heard of it, yes. You want to be my needle, then?” Castiel asks.

“You rebuilt my body,” Sam says. “You internalized my hallucinations. I feel like we’re pretty well connected. I think if I can tug you into my dreams without trying, this incantation I’ve found can get you all the way home.”

The air swells with a distant church bell. An insect whines.

“So?” Sam prompts.

Castiel glanced to her right and then does a double take when she spots the hell fire a scant few yards from the bottom of the hill.

“Sam—“

“Yeah I know.” Sam doesn’t follow Castiel’s gaze. “It’s far enough away still.”

Castiel isn’t convinced. She can taste sulfur in the back of her throat.

“If you’re going to pull me from Purgatory,” Castiel stands in one smooth motion, “You’re going to let me get rid of that once and for all.”

“It’s not like when the wall broke.” Sam remains sitting; she studies the Cage like an academic. “Just my own mind processing things. Not much to do about it.” Castiel is glad that Sam can’t see her wings or Grace; both of them flare naked red.

“Come on,” Castiel extends a hand for Sam to grasp.

Sam’s grip is tight and there’s a ‘thank you’ buried in it somewhere.

***

Sam has the incantation already primed back in the waking world, she tells Castiel as they stand at the edge of her dream. The Cage billows behind them, but it won’t reach them in time. When they grip hands and step forward into nothing, it’s surprisingly simple to find the ladder to the physical world.

Purgatory tugs at Castiel for a few moments, but then some reaction in the incantation takes effect and it’s like scissors snipping through wires. Castiel all but floats into the physical plane. Sam tugs her along like a beacon.

Castiel lands on a chemical-smelling carpet. She blinks at the glare of real light, flexes her wings experimentally, then finds Sam sprawled next to her. Sam is staring at her with her cheek pressed against the carpet and an open mouthed grin.

“I can’t believe that worked,” she whispers.

“You’ll have to show me where you found the incantation,” Castiel sits up carefully, letting her vessel adjust to Earth physics again. Nothing feels torn or out of place, which seems mildly miraculous. She looks around and finds an empty apartment with shabby carpeting and off-white paint. A pile of detritus sits in the corner, and weak sunlight filters through the dusty window.

“It was a way to bring monsters back from the dead, and I made a few tweaks so it would stick to an angel,” Sam babbles as she too rocks to a sit. “I can’t _believe_ that worked.” Sam is all but glowing with her own success, and Castiel can’t begrudge her for it. Even if something under her skin crawls at being on Earth again.

“Where’s Dean?” Castiel asks brusquely.

All the glow disappears from Sam’s face. She stands and points, and Castiel turns around. She finds a short hallway and two doors. One hangs open to reveal the corner of a mattress.

Dean is sprawled on the mattress in an untidy heap. Her chest moves too little with each breath, her hair is greasy but brushed, and her skin looks pale and stretched across her bones, like canvas.

“Dehydration,” Sam says from behind Castiel. “I was going to get her to a hospital by tonight, if I couldn’t find you.”

Castiel moves forward, crouches by Dean, and then jerks her head back when she finds two fingers missing from her right hand; the pointer and thumb.

“What happened?” Castiel asks.

“Bad hunt,” Sam says after a long pause. Castiel side-eyes Sam, moves to touch the mangled hand, then pauses.

“My Grace is finite,” she says.

“Priorities, then,” Sam is crouched next to Castiel. “We need to get her awake first.”

“Agreed,” Castiel rocks back on her heels and moves her hand to Dean’s forehead. It’s clammy and too cool.

Castiel tugs gently at Dean’s consciousness. It doesn’t budge. Castiel closes her eyes and feels for Dean’s mind, so she can get a firmer grip. Something rough and crumpled appears under her Grace instead. It feels like bark.

Castiel pulls her fingers away and squints at Dean. Her soul is still present, but it’s pooled in her chest cavity. Not damaged, but dangerously still.

“What?” Sam asks.

“Something’s wrong.”

“Yeah I know. Hypersomina.”

“No no. I mean yes, her brain chemistry is off balance right now. But that comes from the other problem.”

“What problem?”

“Her soul. It’s comatose. She’s buried far, far too deep inside herself.”

“Can you reach her?”

“No.” Castiel shifts her position. “I can’t wake her from here. I’ll have to go inside.”

Sam bows her head and sends a stream of air through pursed lips.

“Okay,” she snaps her head back up and holds out a hand. Castiel regards it, then looks at Sam’s expression.

“No.”

“Cas, we’re not arguing this.”

“It might be dangerous.”

“Like I give a fuck.”

Castiel tilts a few drops of Grace into her next words. “Sam, this isn’t—“

“No. You’re wasting time. Get us in there.”

Castiel glares at Sam, then rolls her eyes heavenward. She’s out of practice.

“You’re a foolhardy _child_ ,” Castiel shoots for the final word as she places one hand on Dean’s clammy forehead and the other on Sam’s furrowed one. She pauses, inhales at the sheer familiarity of the position, and then looks to Sam.

“Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Sam grabs at Castiel’s wrist.

Castiel tilts them forward.

***

Even though they stumble into an almost identical looking forest, Castiel can tell that they haven’t landed back in Purgatory. On the surface level alone, the light has a different hue and the air is denser against her skin. When Castiel expands her awareness, she finds no Leviathan, no dead vampires, no half-formed shadows. What she does find is an absolute mess.

Usually, a human’s mind has some modicum of order to it. Sam’s, for example, is spirals of thought that intertwine with one another like a series of DNA helixes. And last time Castiel had been in Dean’s head, she’d found a landscape of memories and imaginings that unfolded in lazy waves and sweeping curves.

Now, Castiel finds no clear path anywhere. The very fabric of Dean’s mind is bunched up and tangled, like someone has pressed it into an impossibly small container and crushed everything together until all the gorgeous patterns collapsed in on themselves.

It sets off every one of Castiel’s internal alarms.

Sam must sense as much, because her bulk presses close to Castiel and she’s practically wafting nervousness.

“Did we make it?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Castiel bites out.

A pause.

“But?”

“This is impossible to navigate,” Castiel says, her voice just masking panic. “She’s sick.” Castiel snaps open her wings in a flush of frustration. She wonders if this comes of Dean spending too long in Purgatory, if the singularity of that place has warped Dean's mind into something dangerous. It's a gut-churning thought.

“Hey Cas?”

“ _What_?”

“What’s with those?”

Castiel finds Sam staring at the ground and follows her gaze.

Flowers. They churn into existence around her and Sam’s feet in a riot of faded colors. Castiel can pick out daisies and zenias and foxgloves. It means something. Castiel is sure of it. She just can’t decide what.

“I don’t know,” she admits. She bends at the waist with half a mind to pluck one. Then she straightens, her mind changed. She doesn’t want to risk upsetting anything.

“We’ll have to start moving,” Castiel says.

“Is that possible?”

“It’s entirely possible, it’s just going to be hard to move in a straight line.” Castiel tries anyway, and she automatically reaches back to capture Sam’s jacket in a death grip. Sam doesn’t protest.

The first step sends them a few seconds forward and a year back all at once. Castiel imagines Dean trying to walk through this mess without any idea of what she’s doing. Worse yet, _Sam_ stumbling around and knocking things over that are already too disordered. Castiel’s grip on Sam’s jacket tightens.

They keep walking, and Castiel’s wings keep extending as if to fly from danger. Except there’s no danger; not the blatant kind, anyway.

Whenever Castiel glances down, she finds that the carpet of flowers springs before their feet and fades away behind them as they move. The scent is dizzying.

“Why does it all look like a forest?” Sam whispers at one point. Her voice is muffled, caught up in jagged, uneven edges.

“It’s based off Purgatory,” Castiel offers. That means something. She tucks the idea away for later reference. Right now, everything from her vessel to her Grace is slamming with the need to find Dean and drag all of them out of this.

They walk in too many different directions and times, but there’s a general dip, and they follow it, and at some point Castiel is able to halt, point, and say, “There.”

“…where?” Sam breathes. She’s doing everything quieter, like she’s afraid she’ll disturb something. Castiel isn’t inclined to tell her otherwise.

“To our right,” Castiel leads the way, having to sidestep a few particularly nasty rips and bottomless loops. “See her?”

“Oh god,” Sam’s voice is hoarse. “The…the tree?”

In answer, Castiel hops over one last twist and they’re standing next to something that resembles a badly disfigured sapling. If Castiel tilts her head, she can find Dean’s human features embedded in the bark.

“What happened?” Sam’s hands are drifting toward Dean like she wants to touch but can’t find the nerve to do so.

“Like I said, she’s sick. Mentally stuck herself into this form. We’ll have to ask her.” Castiel drops Sam’s jacket, musters as much of her Grace as she can, then reaches into the tree and tugs. A low sound pierces the silence from somewhere underneath everything. Castiel can imagine that Dean’s body is making the noise back in the waking world.

“What was that?” Sam asks. Her voice is sharp.

“She’s there,” Castiel nods. “That’s good. We’ll have to pull her out quickly.”

“Will it hurt her?”

“Yes. But it will be better than leaving her here.”

“No, right,” Sam widens her stance, like she’s about to fight something. “What do I do?”

“Help me pull when I say.”

Castiel buries her hands into Dean’s trunk again, and this time she grabs double fistfuls of her. It takes a few agonizing moments, but eventually Dean starts peeling from the shape of a sapling and into that of a human.

“Sam!”

Sam grabs at the figure. Her jaw clenches and unclenches as she pulls in tandem with Castiel.

A wail pierces the air and reverberates through the forest. Sam falters.

“Keep going!” Castiel orders.

“We’re hur—“

“KEEP GOING!”

Dean slams into humanity. The wail turns into a miserable, slippery groan. Castiel’s hands slacken and she lets Sam take over. Sam lowers her sister to the ground. One big hand cradles the back of Dean’s head.

“Dean, you hear me?”

When Dean opens her eyes, Castiel’s wings sag with relief.

Dean blinks.

“Oh,” she croaks.

Sam makes a peculiar noise through a grimacing smile.

“Hi,” she says.

“Oh god,” Dean tilts her head to bury her face in Sam’s chest, and Sam’s eyes are definitely damp when she wraps her arms tighter around Dean’s back.

Castiel wants to be able to enjoy this sight. But she’s distracted by the fact that dragging Dean into her human self used a lot of energy and Castiel’s Grace is flagging, and Heaven might as well not exist at this point, and she still has to bring them all home.

“Cas?” Castiel jerks her head up and finds Dean’s green eyes staring at her.

“Hello Dean.”

“You real?”

“As far as I know.”

“Regular reunion party,” Dean mutters. The flowers around Castiel and Sam flush with a wave of color. Dean is smiling. “God, it’s good to see you,” she says.

Castiel’s Grace twinges.

“I’m sorry, but we need to leave soon,” Castiel says. “My Grace…”

“No, right,” Sam adjusts her grip on Dean. “Can you stand?”

“Yeah, I can stand,” Dean rasps. A minute later she’s more slumped against Sam than anything else, but it’s enough. Castiel grabs at Dean and Sam’s hands.

 “I’m going to lead,” Castiel hears herself speak as if from a distance, “and you two follow close as you can. Don’t stop until you wake up, do you understand?”

Sam affirms. Dean sways.

Castiel knows it’s going to be close as soon as she opens her wings and jumps forward. Her strength is low, and slipping in and out of human minds has always been a tricky maneuver. Castiel beats her wings once, twice, falters.

It’s in that moment of faltering that Castiel catches sight of Dean’s mind below them, spread out like a landscape. It looks like the scene of a battle. They can’t stay there.

So Castiel dredges the last bits of her Grace and pushes them forward and into the physical world.

Sam and Dean wake up.

Castiel enters the world like most humans enter it: confused and screaming.

***

Here is a story.

**The first time Castiel sees a soul**

It had been Anael’s suggestion that they finally see a human for themselves. Balthazar had come back from an assignment on Earth recently and kept goading angels to take a peek.

“Brilliant things,” xe kept saying. “Creative like you wouldn’t believe! Brutal, nasty things, but they’re _genius.”_

Castiel couldn’t imagine what the fuss was about, but Anael had been intrigued enough to drag Castiel along.

“The _homo sapiens_?” Castiel asked as they winged over the land that one day would be called Ethiopia. “How is that one any different from its cousins?”

“It’s a little more clever,” Anael replied. “It’s a little more warlike. That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Whatever happened to the Neanderthals? I liked them.”

“They’re still around,” Anael assured xir. “But they’re not the ones that were chosen, apparently. They’ll be gone in a matter of a thousand years.”

“Shame,” Castiel mused.

“Look,” Anael stopped suddenly and pointed. Xir Grace sparked. Castiel followed Anael’s attention and ended up staring.

Physically speaking, the human was not any more notable that the other bipedal creatures that had been roaming the continent for the last few thousand years. It was a young female, still coltish and loping, and she was in the middle of raiding a bird’s nest.

But Castiel wasn’t looking at that. Instead, xe stared at the soul inside of the human.

Castiel had known that human souls were God’s great masterpiece; surpassing even the angels in their complexity. It was another thing entirely to see it.

This soul spun and surged and was almost too much to look at directly. The human’s soul flowed more than Grace would, and flashed more subtle hues than even Lucifer in all xir glory.

As Castiel watched, the human took one of the eggs and instead of breaking it open and lapping up the yolk, she used a firm rod to make a single small hole at one end of the egg. She then made a second hole at the egg’s other end, then sucked the egg’s fluids through the newer hole. Her soul danced with simple pleasure.

And then. Then, once she had hollowed out the egg, she took a long, bending grass and painstakingly threaded the grass through the two holes. She tied knots to keep the egg in place, and then held the grass up to admire her handiwork. The sunlight lit up the empty, spackled eggshell, and it became beautiful in a new way, in a way Castiel had never realized eggs could be beautiful.

The human looked down at the remaining two eggs in the nest, then licked her lips and began walking away.

“They _create_ ,” Anael breathed from beside Castiel. “They make new things for the sheer beauty of them. They’re…” xe turned to Castiel. “They’re like small gods.”

Castiel watched the human walk away. She was making a rhythmic sound. It took Castiel a moment, but then xe realized that it was a song. A ditty that the human was making up for the pleasure of hearing herself.

Castiel fell in love.

***

Castiel never loses consciousness.

(She almost wishes she had.)

Instead, she finds her torso sprawled across a chemical-reeking air mattress while her legs sag on the carpet.

She can feel the missing weight of her wings almost immediately.

Dean and Sam are babbling behind her. Humans talk so much, Castiel considers, and half the things that come out of their mouths are redundant.

“She needs water or something.” Dean’s voice sounds a little slurred.

“ _You_ need water or something, lay back down, Dean.”

“Look at her, something’s wrong.”

“No fucking kidding, and you’ve been comatose for three days. Lie the fuck back down.”

“Yeah, and you look all peachy? Get her water.”

“Jesus _Christ_.”

Sam clatters from the room.

Castiel shifts, and her vessel’s senses slam into her, hard and urgent.

“Hey Cas?” Dean’s voice sounds like sandpaper. “You okay?” The air mattress shifts, and a swell of air rises beneath Castiel.

“No.” Castiel doesn’t remember her voice ever sounding that loud or close.

“You’re gonna have to give us more than that, bud. What happened?”

Sam reenters the room with a groan of floorboards.

“Here,” she says. Something plastic crinkles. Sam rounds Castiel’s legs and crouches in Castiel’s line of sight.

Castiel blinks hard.

The Winchesters rarely talk about the years when Sam flirted with the potential of becoming the Child King. If they’d ever asked, Castiel would have told them how Sam’s ordained destiny manifested as flakes of gold in her soul. Castiel used to admire them, despite herself, the same way that she’d once admired Lucifer. Because there xe was again, scattered through a soul that always shone a little harder than those surrounding it. Sam would have made a magnificent King, Castiel had decided. Terrible, but magnificent.

The gold had been gone ever since Sam emerged from the Cage. Torn away or mined by Lucifer and Michael, Castiel can’t say. After the Pit, Castiel would sometimes watch Sam’s soul, curled beneath her body and spirit, and consider that it was still a magnificent thing. Even flayed, even bloodied, even withdrawn into a far corner of Sam’s body. That probably, the gold hadn’t had anything to do with its appeal.

“Cas?”

Castiel looks up and finds Sam’s eyes.

The point. The point is, Sam’s soul-light is a bare whisper now. If Castiel wasn’t looking for it, she might not see it at all. And that means something. That obviously means something but Castiel doesn’t have the nerve to name it.

She also doesn’t have the nerve to look at Dean at all now.

“Cas,” Sam is holding out a bottle, and Castiel can’t decide how long it’s been hanging between them.

“What.” The word comes out in a rasp. Her throat hurts.

“Water,” Sam shakes the bottle.

Castiel doesn’t think that water will do one iota of good for anything. But she can’t blame Sam either; only natural to think that the substance that allows your body to keep functioning can solve other problems. So Castiel props herself on one elbow, accepts the bottle, unscrews the cap, and takes a careful sip. She splutters and looks down at the bottle’s label, with its illustration of a mountain.

“This tastes terrible,” she says.

“Cheap bottled,” Sam shrugs. “Sorry.”

It’s nothing to do with _how_ the water tastes and everything to do with the fact that it _tastes_ at all, but Castiel doesn’t want to delve into that. She takes another, larger sip, and notes how her mouth and throat revel in the moisture.

Castiel realizes that Sam is staring at her, so she lowers the bottle.

“You okay?” Sam asks. Castiel licks her lips and nods once.

Sam’s brow relaxes.

“Gave us a scare,” she says.

A deep _hurk_ comes from Dean’s direction.

Castiel looks over at Dean before she can help herself, and tries not to flinch.

Dean always shone as bright as her sister’s—she was a vessel to Michael, after all—but her soul had a different luster to it. If Sam was vitreous then Dean was matte; she dappled like the light that sifts through a forest’s canopy. That, and the Michael Sword had been marked by a rolling thrum that sounded, alternatively, like either pulses of the Earth’s mantle or war drums or a human heart. That sound has faded too since the Apocalypse, but never disappeared. It only occurred to Castiel recently that Dean had heard the thrum so long her soul had adopted it without meaning to.

But in any case, that’s nearly gone as well, nothing more than a rustle.

Now all Castiel can see is Dean bent over, clutching at her abdomen with one hand and the other flailing at open air.

“Oh shit,” Sam surges past Castiel. Castiel sits up to watch Sam grab a plastic bag waiting by the mattress and shove it beneath Dean’s face. A few seconds later, the bag sags with yellow, viscous bile. Castiel looks away and breathes out so the smell doesn’t accost her.

“Castiel.” Sam sounds tense and her use of Castiel’s full name probably means something. “Can you help me here?” Castiel nudges her face in Sam’s direction and finds Dean with her mouth gaping over the plastic bag. Her face is blotchy and her eyes are tearing up, and Dean never looked this vulnerable in Purgatory.

“How?” Castiel asks.

“You have enough Grace left to rehydrate her?”

“I—“ Castiel feels her breathing pick up pace. It takes a moment to consider that she might be panicking.

Sam frowns then her face clears. “Never mind,” she says. “Just…hold the bag a minute, will you?”

Castiel edges forward and takes the bag from Sam. She tries not to wrinkle her nose too much. Sam starts gathering Dean’s hair into a tail. She pulls a small black band from her pocket and snaps it around the hair. Dean groans and her abdomen visibly convulses. Castiel flinches.

“Ok,” Sam slides one hand to the back of her sister’s neck. “She needs Gatorade and food. I’m going to have to make a Wal-Mart run. Can you stay with her?”

“How long will you be gone?” Castiel’s grip tightens on the bag.

“Half an hour tops,” Sam promises. She hesitates, eyes Castiel, then adds, “You okay to do that?”

Castiel swallows. “I can watch her until you get back, yes.”

Sam’s lips press together and her hand slides up and down Dean’s back one last time before she stands. She then reaches over to tuck a strand of hair behind Castiel’s ear. It’s a useless gesture—Castiel’s hair is a greasy mess—but Castiel doesn’t think that’s quite the point.

“Half an hour,” Sam repeats. “Make sure she drinks. I’ll leave you a cell phone; you can call me whenever. And when I get back, we’ll figure everything else out, alright?”

Castiel nods once. She doesn’t know how to say that she doesn’t remember cell phones very well.

“Quit jabbering and get out of here,” Dean croaks. She slaps Sam’s calf. Sam’s lips quirk.

Castiel leans forward and peers at Dean when the front door closes and the lock grinds into place. As soon as silence hits the room, Castiel becomes acutely aware, once again, that her wings and Grace aren’t filling it with their usual hum of electromagnetic energy. Her grip on the plastic bag tightens again.

“I think I’m done,” Dean pants. She pulls her face away from the bag. Her eyes are swollen red in a face that is livid white, but her expression when she meets Castiel’s is downright hopeful.

“Sorry,” she rasps. “Finally get you out of Purgatory and you have to hold the vomit bag.”

“Hell was worse.” Castiel ties the bag up with a little fumbling. When she glances up again, Dean is still looking at her.

“Sorry,” Dean repeats after a moment. “I’m really…it’s really fucking good to see you.”

“You too.” It’s the truth. Castiel can claim that much.

Dean mouth is bunched up with a suppressed smile. She’s practically leaning forward, and at some point Castiel understands enough to set the bag aside and reach to pull Dean into a hug because humans like hugs and the Winchesters aren’t all that different, in that regard.

Dean releases a pained sound and tosses her arms around Castiel. It’s immediately apparent that Dean has lost muscle mass, and her skin reeks of sweat and her hair smells. But like Castiel said, Hell was worse, so she lets Dean clutch at her and doesn’t analyze the way her vessel is sparking at the human contact. It wouldn’t do any good to do something like that.

“Sorry,” Dean mumbles into Castiel’s shoulder.

Castiel isn’t sure what she’s apologizing for, so she stays quiet. When Dean pulls away several seconds later, she wipes the back of her wrist across her eyes.

“So um,” she glances around at the empty room. “We in that apartment?”

“If you mean the one that Sam rented, then I think yes.” The bag of bile is reeking. Castiel wants to get rid of it.

“Mm.” Dean sniffs and wipes at her eyes a second time. “Figures she held onto it.”

Castiel goes into a crouch.

“I’m going to throw this away,” she lifts the bag slightly. “You need water.”

“’d be nice,” Dean says.

Castiel nods, stands, then immediately regrets it when she sways and stumbles. She sits differently in her vess—in her body. Nothing is quite where she remembers it; the connections have shifted and run on different circuits.

“Hey,” Dean has one hand out. It’s the hand that’s mangled. “We okay?”

Castiel blinks at the hand and it takes her a few seconds to remember that she can’t give Dean a new one with a touch and a single thought. That makes something cold splash across her gut.

“I’m…yes.” Castiel looks away from Dean’s hand and all but stumbles from the room. She thinks Dean might call her name.

But Castiel’s mind is screaming with the absence of her wings and the way that she can feel herself trudging through the thickness of the physical world and the dimness where Dean’s soul ought to exist.

She places the bag of Dean’s vomit just out side the front door and then goes to what looks like the kitchen because she remembers that kitchens are for food and water.

(Does she need food and water now?)

Castiel looks around at humming appliances. She can’t remember what you do for water in a kitchen.  She stands for too long without moving.

“Cas?” Dean’s voice carries from the bedroom. “You okay?”

Castiel doesn’t realize that she’s shaking until she looks down and sees her hands. Her head floats just above her shoulders. Her vessel—her _body_ tells her to crouch because her legs are faltering, and for the first time since the Apocalypse, Castiel pays it full attention.

She sinks until her knees jut up in front of her and her bottom just brushes the tile. She buries her hands into her hair and closes her eyes and keeps swallowing through the desire to open her mouth and vocalize her mounting terror.

That’s how Dean finds her five minutes later, when she inches her way into the kitchen with her full weight against the wall.

“Shit,” Castiel hears.

When Sam gets home twenty minutes later, Castiel is in the same position and Dean has one hand on the back of her neck.

***

**Castiel witnesses the Fall**

When Lucifer fell from Heaven, many angels wept. Castiel, for xir part, wept for two reasons. One was that their blessed sibling had turned away from the Father and gone xir own way. Never before had the angels lost one of their own; Lucifer’s betrayal cut them all to the quick.

Castiel also wept for how beautiful Lucifer looked when xe fell. Xe had always had the brightest Grace of all of them, dazzling with xir gold and glass that flashed many colors. Only Michael and the Father could bear to gaze on Lucifer for too long.

Now, as xe strode away from Heaven, Lucifer glinted and shone harder than Castiel had ever seen before. It was a swan song, and perhaps Lucifer meant something by being the most beautiful right when xe turned away from all of them. It was spiteful, Castiel recognized that.

Xe still didn’t looked away from Lucifer. Even after Lucifer had disappeared, Castiel strained for the hint of a flash of xir Grace.

***

“Gone?” Sam repeats.

“More or less,” Castiel keeps her eyes trained on the tile. “I can’t feel Heaven at all.”

Next to her, Dean’s side heaves with a sigh.

“But you were still connected in Purgatory,” Sam pursues.

“It’s been a tenuous connection,” Castiel says. “I’ve strained it so much the last few years.” She clears her throat. “It’s not surprising that it finally snapped.”

“You can’t try and reconnect?” Dean asks.

Castiel tilts her head in Dean’s direction.

“Why would my brothers and sisters agree to that?” she asks.

Dean’s eyes drop to her knees.

“So you’re human,” Sam says.

“For all intents and purposes.” Castiel avoids looking at Sam’s face because the sympathy there makes Castiel’s throat dry.

“Shoulda said something earlier,” Dean mutters.

Castiel rolls her lips in and fiddles with the sleeve of her jacket.

“Okay,” Sam goes from a sit to a crouch. “Cas?” Castiel looks at Sam through her lashes. “We’re going to be here for a while,” Sam shoots a pointed a look at Dean when she says this. “And we can manage this.”

Castiel nods once.

Sam’s smile is tight when she stands and looks down at Dean and Castiel. They look back up like two children in front of a parent.

“Either of you okay to stand?” Sam asks.

“Yes,” Castiel shifts and rocks to her feet. Dean stays where she is.

“You know when I lost a couple pints of blood in Georgia?” she asks.

“The poltergeist?”

“I feel kinda like that again.”

“Right.” Sam bends down and in a few deft motions hooks her arms beneath Dean’s legs and her shoulder, hefting her up in one smooth motion. Dean makes a high, thin noise and throws her arms around Sam’s neck.

“Jesus Christ,” she says emphatically. Then, when Sam starts walking, demands, “Where you taking me?”

“The bed, genius.”

“It’s not a bed it’s a cheapo air mattress,” Dean says. She immediately follows with a deep groan.

“Not gonna hurl on me again, are you?” Sam starts walking slowly.

“Waju mean ‘again’?” Dean’s voice is fainter. “When was the last time I hurled on you?”

“Dude, you got pretty close a few weeks ago.”

“Just gotten my hand chewed off, gimme a freakin’ break.” Dean’s head lolls on Sam’s shoulder and her eyes screw shut.

Castiel’s stomach flops.

While Sam gets Dean arranged on the mattress, Castiel looks around at the scattered plastic bags Sam had dropped when she’d found Dean and Castiel. When she peers into one, Castiel finds a package of bottles full of a red liquid.

“Here,” Castiel arrives in the bedroom’s doorway a half minute later. Sam looks up and then grins slightly at the bottle Castiel is holding out for her.

“Thanks,” Sam accepts it. There’s a moment when they both have their hands on the bottle, when their eyes meet, and Castiel can tell Sam’s about to try and say something comforting or hopeful.

“Take care of Dean first,” Castiel says. “My condition isn’t critical.”

Dean, curled up on the mattress, makes an uneven sound. Sam’s shoulders drop and she says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

Castiel nods once, releases the bottle, and leaves the bedroom. Sam will call if she needs help.

The apartment isn’t a large space. Castiel stands in the middle of the living room and surveys the cracked walls and stained baseboards. The double windows, next to the front door, let in dirty sunlight. To Castiel’s left, the entryway into the tiny kitchen is narrow. Behind her, the bathroom and one bedroom.

She almost wishes they were just traveling in the Impala, because at least then they’d have a changing landscape.

“I’m going to try and get some soup into Dean,” Sam says from behind Castiel. “Can I get you to eat some?”

Castiel glances back. “I suppose I need to.” Then immediately, “I need to go outside.”

“Sure,” Sam blinks. “Sure, Cas.”

“I need to go outside,” Castiel repeats. Her attention is starting to focus on that idea, because the ceiling is too low and the circulated air smells unfresh. “I’m not going to go anywhere,” Castiel adds.

“It’s okay,” Sam says. “I’ll find you in a bit?”

Castiel nods, then practically shoots toward the front door. She can sense Sam watching her, but she has neither the time nor the attention for that.

When Castiel emerges from the apartment she finds watery autumn sunlight and the bag of vomit. Castiel closes the door behind her and studies the long porch and a line of windows and doors. When she looks over the railing, a postage stamp of grass lies beneath her, with a small playground. Beyond that, the parking lot.

Castiel finds the steps leading to the ground level and descends them slowly. She can hear the wood groaning but she wouldn’t have been able to say what tree the wood came from, or where the tree had grown, or how old it had been when it was felled. Nor can Castiel find so much as a glimmer of soul-light radiating from the line of doors. The apartments could be empty, for all that Castiel knows. When Castiel steps off of the steps and approaches the grass, she hesitates. She can’t see the grass’ energy at all. Not the movements of the insects within it. Not the small mammals that are undoubtedly burrowing beneath it.

Castiel retreats to the bottom step. She sits with her hands clasped between her knees and fixes her sight on a whorl on one of the wooden columns. She can’t have two breakdowns in the space of an hour. That would be ridiculous.

The sun edges into evening. Tenants trickle in and out of their apartments. A few give her odd looks. Others ignore her.

When the sun has nearly disappeared behind the bare trees, the steps groan again.

“Cas?”

Castiel twists around and finds Sam looking down at her from the top of the steps.

“Hello.”

“Hey.” Sam thumps down the steps, and Castiel scoots over so Sam can sit next to her.

“I have some soup in there,” Sam says. “If you want any.”

“Thank you.”

A moment of silence.

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts. “God I…” she buries her forehead in one big hand. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Sam is correct in part, but Castiel doesn’t like the guilt veining its way across Sam’s face.

“It’s not your fault,” Castiel tries.

“I convinced you to go in there to help Dean,” Sam says.

“Then it was partially your fault,” Castiel amends.

Sam exhales through a thin smile. It’s not really a laugh.

“It’s probably for the best,” Castiel straightens and fixates on the whorl on its column again. “I’m much less dangerous without my Grace.”

Sam stiffens. “Cas, don’t.”

“You want to argue otherwise?”

“That wasn’t you—“

“Opening the portal into Purgatory? Consuming those souls? That was very much me.” Castiel meets Sam’s eye. “If I’m to stay here instead of Purgatory, then don’t try to take away my sense of guilt, Sam. I need it.” Her throat is tightening. Castiel wishes she understood what that meant.

“Listen Cas.” Sam rubs a hand over her mouth. “You can’t…Ok. With Ruby and demon blood and everything? When I let Lucifer in um…” Sam visibly swallows. “I know how it feels.” Sam runs her hands through her hair again. “And I guess I’m being a huge hypocrite because a lot of times I don’t feel like I _should_ drop the guilt, much less _try_ to do it,” Sam speaks in a rush. “Because it’s hard. It’s really hard. But there are still days that I take a shot at it. Sometimes it works.”

Castiel stares, because she would think that Sam would accept her time with Lucifer and Michael as recompense enough, but then again the woman is a prophesied King, a vessel for an archangel, Azazel’s favorite, and above all a Winchester. It never works that easily.

Castiel thinks of the hellfire licking at the edges of Sam’s consciousness. Sam’s insistence that she’s seen worse. That it can wait, Castiel should take care of other things first. The Cage is always there. Sometimes farther, sometimes nearer, but always _there_.

Castiel’s arm twitches to lay her fingers on Sam’s brow, but that doesn’t work anymore, does it?

Sam scratches at her cheek, eyes on the ground. Her hair slips across her face slightly.

“You shouldn’t still be punishing yourself,” Castiel says. She’s aware of the hypocrisy, but this is _Sam._

They sit in silence that stretches into the early evening. The orange streetlights have flickered on when Castiel breaks the silence.

“How is Dean?” she asks.

“Not asleep, but dozing at least.” Sam shifts on the stair. “She says she doesn’t feel like she needs to fall asleep, not like she did before. So the hypersomnia is…abated somehow?”

“Her soul is probably moving again,” Castiel nods. “When she was comatose, her soul wasn’t reacting to anything. Not dead, or hurt necessarily just…I suppose depressed is a good way to describe it.”

“Really?” Sam looks intrigued. “Do souls affect psychology then? How does that work?”

“I’m not sure that humans have the right physics to describe it,” Castiel says. “But I can try to explain it.”

“Later," Sam promises. She still looks troubled. "So, what's causing this? Causing her...her soul to stop moving."

"My best guess? Purgatory," Castiel says. "It's a strange place; physics works in the wrong direction much of the time. Dean had her physical being, her living soul, soaked in there for a long time. I think it warped the fabric of her."

Sam stares at Castiel with no small amount of horror. Castiel can't blame her. "How much damage?" Sam asks. "She's been acting normal, generally speaking."

Castiel shakes her head. "Her mind was...well, twisted up but still there. I don't know though, humans don't usually spend so much time in Purgatory." She frowns. "But humans are also resilient beyond logic. Not to mention malleable. She might be able to get her mind and soul back in order, with some help."

"What kind of help?"

"From us. The kind she'll refuse to accept."

Sam laughs without humor. As if needing a new topic, she picks at Castiel’s coat. “Hey. You want to change out of that? Take a shower?”

Castiel looks down at her filthy clothing.

“I’m not sure how,” she admits.

“We have some old clothes you can borrow,” Sam stands and pats Castiel’s shoulder. “C’mon, I’ll give you some Humanity 101.”

Castiel stands as well. They start walking up the stairs.

“Sam?”

“Mm?”

“There’s a pressure on my lower abdomen and between my legs.”

Sam pauses and looks at Castiel.

“Are you familiar with that sensation?” Castiel asks.

“I am.” Sam looks like she wants to laugh, and Castiel isn’t sure as to why.

***

Five hours later, Castiel is staring at the ceiling and wondering how humans do this every night. Lie in the darkness and wait for complete obliviousness to overtake them. Castiel has had some experience sleeping, from the Apocalypse, but sleep overtook her gradually then. She never sat and waited for it to come.

Someone in the bedroom shifts and snorts. Castiel is glad that she chose to sleep on the living room floor. She doesn’t think she could have handled a room that tiny. Even the living room is bordering on claustrophobic.

Castiel wriggles in the flimsy, nylon sleeping bag that Sam bought from Wal-Mart and flips on her stomach. The t-shirt that Sam gave her rides up on her stomach.

“People have all kinds of sleeping positions,” Sam had explained a few hours ago. “Just do whatever’s comfortable.”

Sam never said what to do when nothing feels comfortable. When one’s very essence has been altered and crammed into a shape that is vaguely familiar but overall alien. Sam has no idea what she’s talking about, Castiel thinks bitterly.

The wash of guilt that follows that thought just aggravates Castiel more, and she sits up in one abrupt motion. Orange light seeps through the windows and bathes the living room carpet a sickly color. Castiel is staring at the color when a door hinge creaks. She twists around and finds a pale shape emerge from the dark bedroom.

Dean is gripping the doorframe with both hands.

Dean pauses, peers at Castiel, then says, “I have to pee.”

“Do you need help?” Castiel asks, even if she’s not very qualified for the task. She’s now urinated a grand total of two times, and the first time she’d needed Sam to explain the process.

“I’ll holler if I do.” Dean inches across the hallway to the bathroom. Castiel keeps her eyes on the closed bathroom door.

“You didn’t flush,” Castiel says when Dean reemerges, because Sam had reiterated that rule several times.

“I only peed,” Dean makes a half smile. “The flush might wake Sam. She needs to sleep, the little worry wart.”

“I see.” Castiel shifts, and the nylon of the sleeping bag scrapes across the carpet.

She can see Dean lick her lips.

“How you feeling?”

Castiel wonders if Dean really expects her to have a word, or even a handful of words, ready to hand out.

“I can’t sleep.”

Dean huffs and leans against the wall. She’s standing a good three paces from Castiel. It takes a while for her to talk.

“I don’t think I ever said thanks for saving my ass,” she says. “So thank you. It wasn’t worth you losing your Grace.”

“I wouldn’t necessarily say that.”

Dean rubs at her arms. “Still wish you hadn’t had to lose it.”

“Me too,” Castiel says before she can stop herself. Dean all but flinches.

“Cas,” she starts. She pauses. “Listen. I’m sorry for letting go.” Her voice is husky.

Castiel blinks. “And I’m sorry that I had to let Sam take the reigns on getting you out because I was so screwed up over leaving you there—“

“Leaving me?” Castiel sits straighter. “When?”

Dean shifts against the wall.

“When I let go of your hand?” The words come out slowly. “When we were using the portal?”

“You didn’t let go of my hand,” Castiel says blankly. “I let go of yours.”

A group of people are shouting somewhere in the parking lot. Castiel thinks they should probably stay quiet.

“What?” Dean is just loud enough to be heard over the noisy people.

“I let you go because I needed to stay in Purgatory.” Castiel starts to frown. “Did you not realize that?”

“What?” Dean repeats. She’s squinting at Castiel like she expects her to come into focus somehow.

“I wanted to stay,” Castiel repeats and leans back slightly. “I couldn’t come back to Earth, Dean. Not after what I’d done. I’m sorry that I acted as if I would, but you were very insistent and I didn’t see any other way—”

“You were _travelling_ with us,” Dean’s voice raises a notch.

“An idea I was against,” Castiel pointed out. “I know that we’d have had less than half of the Leviathan attacks we did if you’d agreed to let me—“

“What the _hell_ Cas?” Dean takes a step forward, and Castiel is suddenly deeply aware that Dean is standing up while Castiel is sitting, that Dean is now larger and heavier while Castiel is still overwhelmed by her body’s most basic functions. “What the hell?” Dean is blinking fast now. “You don’t—do you have any fucking idea—“ She exhales like a bull and her hands spread before her like she’s gripping an invisible ball. Or someone’s head. “ _Why_?”

“I didn’t have any right to leave Purgatory,” Castiel tries again, though her voice sounds smaller.

“So you had a right to aband—“ Dean swallows the rest of the word and plows forward with, “Like Benny and I had any more of a right than you? I’ve killed people! Benny’s a fucking vampire!”

Castiel stares. The muscles in Dean’s neck are cording and her nostrils are flared and Castiel can’t remember the last time she’s seen Dean this ready to use physical violence. Against her. Her soul must be thrashing right now.

Then, in the next second, like she’s afraid of what she’ll do if she remains, Dean takes a few steps backwards.

She doesn’t say anything. She just slips back into the bedroom and closes the door with restraint that’s almost more unnerving than a loud slam would be.

Castiel stares at the closed door.

***

A high wail, like a siren, permeates the air.

Castiel’s eyes snap open.

It takes a moment to realize that she had been asleep and that she’s now awake. It takes another moment to figure out what woke her up. At first she things it’s a dog howling somewhere outside. But no, it’s human and it’s a voice and it’s Sam.

Dean must be nearly shouting for Castiel to hear her over Sam and through the door.

“Sam. Sammy, c’mon bud. Hey come back. Come back, it’s okay.” The wailing sound hitches, then falls silent.

Castiel can’t hear much after that save low, indistinct murmurs. She can visualize what Sam was seeing and smelling. It makes her stomach sour.

Castiel imagines that it would be easy to stand up and open the bedroom door and ask if Sam needs water. Or maybe Castiel could brace Sam against her while Dean keeps up that inane chatter that makes Sam’s eyes soften and her mouth twist up at the corners. Castiel would like to knead Sam’s shoulders and neck, or sift fingers through her hair, any of the little things she knows Dean and Sam do for each other to say ‘I’m here for you. You’re safe.’

That’s what Castiel would like to do. It’s not what she does. What she does is burrow deeper in the sleeping bag, cross her arms, and hunch in her shoulders.

She falls asleep again without meaning to. She doesn’t dream this time either.

***

The next day, Sam looks a little bleary eyed but overall composed. Dean, for her part, still looks too pale and her skin still stretches across her bones, but she’s also able to walk around the apartment and prepare her own food, even if Sam hovers far too close the entire time.

“Stop hovering,” Dean snaps.

Sam shoots her a look and takes half a step away.

From her position against the far wall of the living room, Castiel lowers her book and watches with unveiled curiosity. If Dean notices the attention, she doesn’t give any sign of it. Castiel’s come to expect that since this morning when Dean gave a curt greeting to Castiel’s “good morning.”

Sam has surreptitiously reclaimed the half a step.

It’s the exact opposite of their usual roles, Castiel notes. She decides that they learned it from each another. A loop feeding into itself, but some force has switched the flow of energy. They’ll settle out again.

Castiel drops her eyes back down to the book, even though the text is now blurred and hard to make out with her human vision. It’s one of the old tomes Sam and Dean carry in the trunk of the Impala; a simple witch’s spell book. Castiel skims the instructions for summoning minor demons and hexing tails onto enemies, not for any practical purpose but because otherwise, she’d literally be staring at the opposite wall with her mind blank and far too light. Sam tells her it’s called boredom. Castiel is willing to say that it’s partially boredom, but she doesn’t think boredom should include a heavy undertone of paralyzing sense that if she thinks about how the rules of her existence have been rewritten, she might do something foolish. It also shouldn’t contain the idea that if Castiel were in Purgatory she’d be constantly moving and trying to predict the Leviathans’ next move, and she wouldn’t have time to remember what sound legions of angels make when they die.

So perhaps it’s fitting. Perhaps whatever is left of God decided Castiel had exhausted the punishment Purgatory had to offer. Instead, He’d placed her in a human body where far too often her own thoughts are an echo chamber.

Besides that, though, the technicalities of humanity are…fickle. Sam had discussed sleep, eating, defecation, pain; anything that she could think of. Castiel listened and a few hours later realized that humans’ memories are deeply fallible things, because she couldn’t for the life of her remember what Sam had said about can openers.

But so far, in any case, eating and drinking are not so bad. The soup she’d eaten last night had been nice. Anything to do with the bathroom is uncomfortable.

Sleeping is horrible.

Which is why Castiel listens to Dean’s grumbles as she finishes her lunch without too much resentment. She had three days full of sleep. It’d bound to wreak havoc on the body.

Sam isn’t so lenient.

“What d’you mean why did I buy sheets?” Sam snaps. “You wanted to sleep on an empty mattress? No pillow?”

Castiel tilts her head forward slightly.

“I can sleep on an empty mattress fine,” Dean says.

“Who says you have to?”

“It’s a waste of money,” Dean says. “We won’t use them.”

From her vantage point, Castiel can see Sam’s face as it crumples into something sadder than a frown. She can’t see Dean’s face.

Then, “If we stay here a while we will,” Sam says.

Someone’s foot scuffs along the linoleum.

“It could be like a home base,” Sam continues. “Somewhere to go when we’re in trouble and need to lay low. Like the Roadhouse and Bobby’s house were.”

“And what happened to the Roadhouse and Bobby’s house, huh?” Dean demands.

Sam sighs. “I’m just saying—“

“Those places were warded better than we’ll ever be able to ward this place. This is a student apartment. What are we surrounded by, Sam? Tell me that.”

The tome slumps in Castiel’s lap.

“Civilians,” Dean plows forward. “Grad students with their families. You really want to act like some demon’s never going to find this place? And do who knows what to it?”

“You and Cas both need somewhere to recuperate—“

“Yeah good, and you should have found a motel to do that. We’re better when we’re on the move.”

Dean finally moves into view. Her expression is visibly stormy. Sam looks like she’s just been slapped.

“You’re an ungrateful piece of shit sometimes, you know that?” Sam says.

“Stop the pity act,” Dean growls. She’s still more shuffling than walking and her grip on her plate looks tenuous with two fingers missing. “This just goes back to Amelia—“

Dean has to stop when Sam’s open palm slaps the back of her head. There’s something childish about the act of violence, Castiel decides.

Dean twists around, but Sam’s already moving. She shoves past Dean, grabs her keys from the countertop, and yanks open the front door. She pauses and looks right at Castiel, eyebrows raised. Castiel stares at Sam, then flicks her eyes to find Dean looking hard at a blank, off-white wall with her right hand on the back of her head.

Her nostrils aren’t flared and her neck isn’t cording, but it might yet happen.

Castiel stands in a split decision and slips through the door on Sam’s heels.

They descend the wooden steps and walk to the parking lot in silence.

When they clatter into the Impala, Sam doesn’t start the engine but rests both hands on the steering wheel like she’s stabilizing herself. It’s been raining. Castiel watches a squirrel nose at the darkened mulch spread beneath the shrubs at the edge of the parking lot.

“You probably shouldn’t have come with me,” Sam says.

Castiel looks over.

“Why not?”

“Dean has issues with people leaving her.” Sam says this clinically. Castiel’s stomach _flumps._ “And we both just left her alone in an apartment she hates while she’s still not at 100 percent. That’s pretty shitty of us, isn’t it?” Sam starts the engine.

Castiel inhales hard without meaning to, and her fingers tangle in her lap.

“Should I go back?” Castiel asks. She jerks when the Impala starts moving. “No, _stop_. Sam! Should I go back in?”

Sam presses on the brakes and glances over at Castiel. “Do you want to go back in?”

Castiel will find toxic silence, she’s certain of that. So no, Castiel doesn’t want return to the apartment right now. But she doesn’t quite have the courage to voice it.

Sam gives her nearly a minute before she lets the Impala inch forward again.

“It’s okay,” she says.

“It’s not,” Castiel shakes her head hard. “You said yourself.”

“Fine, then it’s not,” Sam pulls into the road. “But here we are. My excuse is that she’s being stubborn and it’s normal for one of us to storm out and blow off some steam. You have your own reasons.”

“Last night,” Castiel blurts. “I told her that I chose to stay behind in Purgatory. She thought she had let me go but it was the other way around and she was livid.”

“That’s what set her off then?” Sam exhales through pursed lips. Castiel watches the side of her face. “She never really accepted the idea that you didn’t want to come back, whenever I brought it up,” Sam says. She turns on the windshield wipers. “She’d probably have stayed with you, if you’d told her that you didn’t want to leave. She doesn’t leave family behind.”

“You were here,” Castiel says, ignoring the little jump in her stomach the word “family” had produced.

“If she’d known I was with Amelia and not working to get you guys—“

“Sam,” Castiel interrupts. “You were in shock. Stop it.”

“Right.” The corner of Sam’s mouth twitches. “But as far as you and Dean. She’ll come around again.”

Castiel lets Sam have the detour in conversation and picks at the edge of her sweater. (Not really her sweater, but one of Dean’s old ones. It’s pale blue and smells intently of Winchester.)

“What do I do?” Castiel asks.

Sam scrunches her lips to one side. “I don’t think there’s a right answer. I think you’ll get through to each other eventually but you’ll have to feel it out.”

“That’s unhelpful,” Castiel slouches a little in the seat, like how she’s seen Dean and Sam do it.

“Yeah, well.” Sam never finishes that thought as she turns the car onto one of the city’s main roads and presses on the gas pedal. Castiel watches other cars and pedestrians whizz past. The rain starts up again and splatters against the windshield.

“Where are we going?” Castiel ventures when they stop at a red light.

“Not sure yet,” Sam admits. “Did you want to go anywhere?”

Castiel glances at the stores lining the road, in case one of them catch her interest. She finds a little white building surrounded by a nearly empty lot down the road and to her right. Castiel can make out a few shrubs and piles of rocks.

“What’s that?” Castiel points.

“A nursery,” Sam squints.

“Babies?” Castiel asks. Perhaps the lot is for the children to play in.

“The kind for plants,” Sam’s voice surges with good humor, and Castiel imagines that Sam’s soul is flaring yellow. “Let’s check it out.”

They pull into the parking lot—which is not like most parking lots; this is made of gravel—and step from the car with their heads ducked. The rain is not so heavy that they need an umbrella or even a hood, but they scurry toward the building’s awning anyway.

_Broadway Nursery_ , a wooden sign on the door reads. Around them, the awning shields foggy bags of mulch, an assortment of ceramic flowerpots, several rakes, and stone statues and fountains, most of them portraying blank-eyed rabbits and children with wings.

“Fall’s not really the ideal gardening season,” Sam explains as she pushes the door open. A cluster of bells chimes above their heads. “Most of their stuff is out of stock. In a few weeks there’ll be Christmas trees and then tons of flowers and stuff in the spring.” Castiel glances behind and surveys the gray lot before she follows Sam into the building.

Her nose tingles with the smell of damp concrete and soil. Sam exchanges greetings with the boy behind the counter, and assures him that they’re just browsing.

Castiel wanders between shelves of seed packets and devices that “Tell you when your plants are thirsty! Better than the competition!” on the package. Castiel chooses not to believe the claims, because she still remembers Dean giving her a long talk about marketing and advertising in some motel room while they watched TV.

Castiel moves to the end of the aisle and finds a wall of shelves. On the shelves sit more of the terra cotta pots and statues with the winged children. Castiel scrutinizes one of them and finally realizes it’s a human interpretation of an angel. A cherub, perhaps, because she remembers that somewhere around the Renaissance people started condensing those faces of a man, ox, eagle and lion into fat, winged babies. Like most things humans do, it’s as endearing as it is flummoxing and a little foolhardy. Cherubs, Castiel knows from personal experience, are terrifying.

Sam’s footsteps are gritty and heavy behind her.

“Want to get one?” Sam asks. Castiel squints at the statues then decides that Sam is joking.

“Why are they weathered already?” she asks instead. “And all exactly the same way?”

“That’s what sells. Hey,” something rattles by Castiel’s ear and she turns to find Sam holding up three seed packets. “Want to try growing these?”

Castiel holds out her hand, and Sam gives her the packets. Basil, foxtail grass and bluebell, she reads.

“A flower, a grass and an herb,” Sam explains.

Castiel examines the pictures, hands the packets back over, presses her tongue to the back of her teeth, then asks, “Will we be in the apartment long enough to plant them?”

Sam rolls her lips in.

“We can grow them in the backseat,” she says, a smile in place. “I’ll put them on the dashboard so they get sun.” Castiel can’t help but smile back, because when Sam smiles genuinely, it’s beautiful and Castiel has a hard time not responding to it.

Sam then recruits Castiel to help her find little pots that will sit on the kitchen counter and a small packet of potting soil, and then they start perusing the rack of gardening books. By the time they approach the counter with their purchases, an hour has passed.

Sam chatters with the boy behind the counter while Castiel examines gardening gloves. On a low table, she spots a collection of pre-potted, deep purple flowers with dark green leaves. Castiel picks up one of the pots and examines the flowers. Small and simple and a little tired looking. She wants to say that she’s seen them before. Springing up around her feet in riots.

“What do you call these?” Castiel holds the flowers up.

“African violets,” the boy says. “They’re real sturdy little houseplants. Easy to take care of.”

Castiel looks at Sam, and Sam rolls her eyes. Her mouth is curled up at the edges.

The rain has stopped when they walk back to the car. Sam has the bag with the seeds and pots and such, while Castiel holds onto the African violets with both hands. After she buckles herself in, she wedges the pot between her thighs so it won’t tip on the drive home.

“They for you?” Sam asks as they pull out of the nursery’s lot.

“Humans put symbolic meaning into gifts? Especially flowers?” Castiel says it like a question, because she might still have this wrong.

“Sure,” Sam agrees.

“Then these are for Dean,” Castiel strokes one of the leaves, fleshy and finely haired. “I’m feeling this out.”

Sam pulls at her mouth.

“That’s good,” she says.

The door to the bedroom is closed when Castiel and Sam return to the apartment. Sam sets her bag on the kitchen counter, and Castiel remains in the middle of the living room with the African violet.

“Hungry?” Sam asks.

Castiel moves to the kitchen as well, and places the flowerpot one the counter as close to the window as possible.

“I’m not sure,” she says.

“Okay,” Sam leans back on her heels. “Is your midsection tight or have a jabbing pain?”

“No,” Castiel says after a moment.

“Lightheaded?”

“No?”

“Tired?”

“Does being hungry make you tired?”

“It can lower your blood pressure,” Sam shrugs.

Castiel assesses herself for a few seconds. “I don’t want to sleep,” she decides.

“Right,” Sam says. “You’re fine then. But drink some water.”

“Right,” Castiel echoes Sam, and goes to the fridge to find one of the bottles Sam has stockpiled there.

Castiel is leaning against the counter, sipping at her water and watching the African violet, when she speaks.

“Food has meaning too, doesn’t it?” she asks.

Sam, who is in the middle of scraping butter across a slice of bread, bobs her head.

“Giving it to someone usually means you care about them, yeah,” she agrees. One hazel eye tilts toward Castiel. “Why? Want to give her a sandwich? A bowl of soup? I think we have half a box of crackers, but that’s about it.”

Castiel suspects Sam is teasing again, but there’s nothing mean-spirited about it, so Castiel tries a small grin so show that she understands. She pours the last few mouthfuls of water into the soil around the African violet.

“Here,” Sam returns the bread and butter to the fridge and extracts a bottle of Gatorade. She waves it in Castiel’s direction. “Give that to her.”

Castiel accepts the bottle, picks up the African violet, and strides through the living room and toward the closed door with a straight back. If she had wings still, they’d be half-extended.

Castiel opts to knock three times and, when she doesn’t hear a response, opens the door.

The room is dim. Castiel has to strain to make out the lump that is Dean. She’s lying on top of the sheets, hair in a nest around her head, face buried in the mattress. At first, Castiel thinks that she’s asleep.

“Sam, I—“

“It’s not Sam.” Though to be fair, Sam is probably eavesdropping.

Dean’s head snaps up. Her eyes are bleary.

Castiel stands there, water bottle and flowerpot in hand, and receives the sudden, deep conviction that this was a mistake. She ought to turn around and close the door and—

“Are those flowers?” Dean asks.

Castiel maneuvers herself into a cross-legged sit next to the mattress. She places the flowerpot near the head of the mattress and holds out the Gatorade bottle. Dean accepts the bottle after a moment, though her eyes remain on the flowers.

“They’re African violets,” Castiel says. “Sam and I went to the nursery. The kind for plants. They’re for you.”

“For me.”

“Yes.” Castiel fishes for something else to say. “They’re easy to take care of. The boy at the store said they don’t need much watering. And they were…they looked nice.”

Castiel’s courage fails her because Dean is still staring at the flowers like she can’t decipher them.

Dean looks over at Castiel and watches her for several seconds.

“Thanks,” she says.

“You’re welcome.” Castiel considers other things she might say, but they all sound stilted in her head. So she stands up and heads toward the door. “I’m sorry for disturbing you.”

Castiel finds Sam poised several strides from the doorway. She still has a knife smeared with butter in one hand. Her eyebrows are raised and Castiel thinks it means something like ‘Is everything all right?’

Castiel sticks her thumb in the air; she thinks it means, ‘yes.’

***

A story Castiel has never told anyone:

**Castiel fails to fulfill an order**

Castiel stared at the bull. It hadn’t woken up when Castiel coalesced in its barn, and it didn’t wake now. Castiel watched it dream, mainly of green things to eat and the clever, gentle hands of the woman who had tended it when it had been a calf. Bulls did not experience emotions quite the same way that a human did, but content and a sense of safety emanated from the creature’s spirit nonetheless.

Castiel sensed one of xir brethren—Uriel, xe realized— wing past and into the small house sitting a few human paces away from the barn. A man slept in that house, and he dreamt of fighting a faceless attacker. Castiel listened to Uriel snip the man’s spirit and soul from his body. Xe had always been proficient at this, and got it done in one easy motion. The man’s dream blanked out

Castiel waited until Uriel’s presence had disappeared before xe refocused on the bull. The bull was lucky in some ways; its sire had been a proficient stud. So as a calf and through adolescence, it had been treated well by its humans. Soon, it proved to be as good a stud as its sire, if not better, and sold for a high price. It was a fine creature, and the family that owned it was wealthy and could afford to let the bull graze on lush pastures. The grass from these pastures grew from the Nile’s waters, and in that way some of the strength of the river—one of the big rivers, one of the _important_ ones—flowed through the bull as well.

The bull snorted in its sleep. Its dream ended and its mind fell into pleasant darkness.

It was also an unlucky bull, in some ways. Because while it had not been the first calf its mother had birthed, it was the first male. It was a first-born male. So it had to die tonight, just as its herder was the first-born son of his parents and was now being reaped.

Castiel watched the bull’s ear flicker and rustled xir wings. Xe’d thought that if xe started with a beast, xe could work up to a human. It didn’t seem likely that that would happen.

“Are you going to kill it soon?”

Castiel had known the reaper was there, but xe hadn’t seen any point in acknowledge it. Reapers and angels rarely chose to talk.

“I’m not sure,” Castiel admitted, and looked at the reaper. It was a standard one, looking like a long tunnel in some dimensions and like a wall of light in others. For a human, it had the appearance of an older man with black skin and a short, silvering beard. It probably had gathered features from several locals and made itself a visage that the town’s human souls would recognize. Humans always responded well to things they’d seen once already; their sister’s eyes, the baker’s lopsided nose, the potter’s hair.

“This town is almost done,” the reaper told Castiel. “There’s a lot of work to do still tonight. So if you could…” It gestured at the bull.

“Where is the bull’s spirit going?” Castiel asked.

The reaper tilted its head. (And elongated its tunnel. And expanded its wall of light.)

“I thought you would know.”

“I do,” Castiel admitted

The reaper released a little wave of mirth.

“You’re stalling.”

Castiel did not respond.

“You don’t want to kill it,” the reaper pushed.

“It has no idea who Moses is. It’s just being a bull.”

“And that man I reaped was just being a cow herder,” the reaper pointed back to the small house. “And I can promise you, his understanding of Pharaohs and prophets was not much better.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Castiel said. Xir wings expanded even more.

“That’s all well and good,” the reaper said, though it sparked with interest. “But this bull is slated for death tonight.”

“Then someone else can do it,” Castiel turned away from the bull. “I won’t.”

“Does it have great sentimental value?” the reaper asked, like it couldn’t resist asking.

“The bull? No.” Castiel paused. “Angels don’t sentimentalize.”

“That’s false,” the reaper was smiling now. “You can’t even kill it.”

“How would I?” Castiel protested. “My Father made this bull; how can I not love it? And He has ordered us to protect and worship humans as his finest creations. How can I slay _any_ of them?”

“Fair enough,” the reaper said. “I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t have such questions. My master is older and less given to such commands.”

“Maybe you’re lucky,” Castiel said.

And because Castiel didn’t see what else they have to say to each other, xe winged away into the night sky.

Below xir, Egypt swelled with angels, freshly dead souls, and reapers. But Castiel turned away from that place and, at random, found a small hamlet nestled in the foothills of the Andes Mountains. It was an innocuous enough place that not even Uriel would find xir immediately.

There, quite by accident, xe spent several days watching a young girl tumble through her life. Xe watched her play in the fields while her mother planted beans, wrestle with other children, and spend three hours trying to design a trap that would catch mice and rats, before giving up and going to swim in the river.

And even though Castiel would be badly reprimanded when xe returned to Heaven, xe couldn’t feel any regret for abandoning xir mission in Egypt. Xe only had to see the girl try to keep her eyes open underwater, her black hair streaming behind her, to know that xe couldn’t slay a bull, much less a human, who had done nothing but live. Xe couldn’t.

***

Castiel doesn’t even bother trying to fall asleep tonight. She just grabs one of the books she’s been perusing and reads until she’s lost track of the time and her eyes ache from squinting for so long. She might have a slight headache. Her arms are getting tired, so Castiel shifts position to lie on her belly. She immediately grunts and sits up. Castiel abandons the book to frown suspiciously down at her chest, then presses one hand experimentally into the right breast. It hurts. It _really_ hurts, and Castiel pulls her hand away with a small jerk.

The problem with being human, Castiel considers as she stares down at her breast, is one’s overall lack of communication with one’s body. She knows—and Sam and Dean have both explained—that pain means something is wrong, and that she ought to find the problem and fix it. But what is she supposed to do when she has no earthly idea what the problem is? She could knock on the bedroom door, but she worries that the pain would turn out to be something wholly inconsequential and she’d have to suffer through Sam’s pity.

So Castiel takes care to lie on her side this time and focuses on her book with the kind of single mindedness that used to elicit jokes from Uriel in the Garrison.

Castiel supposes that she falls asleep at some point—if she dreams she doesn’t remember it—because she comes to the realization that her head is pillowed on the open book and her eyes are gummy.

She also, after a moment, comes to the realization that her underwear and pants are damp.

Castiel doesn’t move for a long time, because she doesn’t have precedence for this. Jenny’s vessel had never done this before, and angels in their true form simply do not wake up and find dampness between their legs. Mainly because they don’t sleep and they don’t have legs, but that’s beside the point.

Eventually, Castiel decides that she needs to ease out of the sleeping bag. She then needs to look down at her crotch. Castiel does this, even though her stomach is tying itself into knots the entire time.

She sees a dark stain and she smells copper.

Castiel scrambles to a stand, then winces at a rolling ache in her lower abdomen. That just spurs her to push the pain aside and shuffle to the light switch.

She stares down at Dean’s old sweatpants. The ‘V’ of the legs is covered in blood. When Castiel pulls away the pants’ waistband, the new cotton underwear Sam had bought her are stained red too. A musky, coppery smell wafts up to Castiel. Another slow billow of pain radiates from Castiel’s abdomen.

A sudden, cold jab of fear nearly knocks the breath right out of her, and she lets the waistband snap back in place.

It’s telling, she’ll consider later, that Castiel’s first reaction is to trip toward the bedroom door and knock on it with a shaking fist. For five infinite seconds, she thinks that no one will answer. But then the door swings open and Dean peers out.

“What—“ Her eyes drop. “Oh.”

Castiel is definitely trembling now, and she hates it.

“Something’s happened,” she manages.

“Yeah it has,” Dean slips out of the bedroom and closes the door behind her. Her voice is a whisper. “D’you need a pad? I think I have a pack—“ she cuts herself off because Castiel is staring at her blankly and she’s still trembling. “Do you not—Oh god,” Dean reaches one hand out. “Cas. Cas, it’s okay. It’s just a period. You’re not dying.”

“A period…” and then Castiel straightens and inhales, because she’s such a damned fool. She _knows_ about those; it just never crossed her mind that _she’d_ experience it.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel can feel her face growing hot. “I…sorry I bothered you. I’m going to…clean up.” Castiel turns away, hands waving, until Dean catches one of her wrists. Castiel pauses and peers over.

“Calm down,” Dean orders. “Stay here.”

Castiel can’t do much except to oblige as Dean darts back into the bedroom. She emerges with a bundle of clothes and a brightly colored package.

“Bathroom,” Dean orders.

When the bathroom door has been shut, Dean places her pile on the edge of the sink and says, “Go ahead and strip and get in the shower. I won’t look.”

“The shower?”

“You’ll feel better.”

Castiel hesitates, then shucks her sweatpants, underwear and t-shirt while Dean looks at the ceiling. (Castiel could mention that she doesn’t care one way or the other whether Dean sees her naked vessel, but she doesn’t bother).

After Castiel has water streaming from the showerhead, she hears Dean settle herself on what sounds like the closed toilet seat.

“Now what you want to do,” Dean says over the sound of water spattering tile, “is, like, hitch one foot up on those shelves that hold the soap—don’t slip, we don’t need an emergency room trip—and let the water get between your legs. Try to scrub the blood out of the pubic hair; you don’t want it all clotted and nasty later on. And spread the labia a little, try to splash some water in there.” A pause. “I’m sorry, that sounded either really disgusting or vaguely pornographic.”

“I don’t see how this is at all sexual,” Castiel says as she hitches one foot on the bathtub shelf.

“You’d be surprised,” Dean tells her.

It’s awkward, but Castiel starts getting the worst of the blood off of her inner thighs and bush of pubic hair. The water around the drain starts to turn pink.

“You know what though,” Dean is saying, “I had no friggin clue what a period meant when I got mine. I was….oh gosh, twelve when it happened? I mean, I knew _of_ them, but I didn’t internalize the fact that blood would be coming out of my private parts, y’know? Thought a witch had cursed me.”

“What happened?” Castiel asks.

“I bound up my privates with a bunch of ace bandages and waited for dad to get home,” Dean has mirth in her voice. “Sammy could tell something was up. When dad got home I was all snotty and shaking and when I explained where I was bleeding out from, he got this weird look and then hustled me to the front desk and asked the lady for help. Can you believe that?” Deana shifts on the seat. “She was great though. Still remember her name. Lorry. She helped me get a pad on and explained tampons and things.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel lowers her foot and examines her crotch. It looks more or less clean.

“What for?” Dean asks. “It’s kinda funny, looking back.” Castiel doesn’t think so, but she doesn’t say as much.

Soon enough the hot, tacky feeling is completely gone and it turns out that Dean was right. Castiel feels insurmountably better, physically speaking, even if her lower abdomen still pulses. Castiel turns off the shower and accepts the towel Dean hands her.

“Ok so, we’re going to stick to pads for tonight,” Dean says once Castiel has stepped from the shower with the towel around her chest. “Tampons can be a little overwhelming. I have nighttime ones.” Castiel watches closely as Dean tears open a pale orange package and unfolds it to reveal a white pad. After a verbal explanation, Dean lets Castiel put the pad on a clean pair of underwear. It’s not hard, really. Just new.

When Castiel pulls the underwear up, she freezes. She looks at Dean.

“This is uncomfortable,” she says.

“Yeah,” Dean looks apologetic. Castiel shifts and takes a step, and the pad crinkles. She must have made some expression because Dean says, “I’m sorry man.”

“It’s what half the population experiences,” Castiel says dully.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t make it fun.”

“I don’t…” Castiel trails off because her abdomen starts rolling with another wave of pain. It feels like her bowels are peeling away from her body cavity. Castiel leans over because she might be getting light headed. Maybe nauseous.

“Okay, okay,” Dean’s hands are firm around her shoulders and her voice soft. “It’s okay. Cramps, Cas, it’s part of the deal. I got Advil. It’ll be okay.”

Castiel is biting her lip and swallowing through a thickened throat. Dean guides her to a sit on the closed toilet seat, arranges the towel to drape across her lap, then keeps one hand on Castiel’s shoulder as she rustles through her pile of supplies. Castiel has her elbows braced on her knees and her head hanging low. Her hair hangs in black, dripping ropes past her face. She’s definitely nauseous.

“Here we go,” Castiel realizes that Dean hasn’t stopped talking. “Need you to swallow these. Can you do that Cas? Promise it’ll make things stop for a while. C’mon, hon, it’ll be okay.”

Castiel downs the two white pills without water and then goes back to hunching. Dean starts smoothing her hand across Castiel’s shoulders. A minute later, that turns into two hands kneading at the muscles. Castiel can feel how the right hand doesn’t have the same strength as the left one.

“You’re real tight, Cas,” Dean is saying. “Gotta get the blood flowing.”

Castiel’s skin and muscles tingle as Dean’s warm, calloused hands move across them.

Ten, fifteen minutes later, Castiel shifts and realizes that the pain and nausea has subsided.

“Better?” Dean asks.

“Yes,” Castiel croaks.

“Sam taught me,” Dean says as she works at a knot in Castiel’s neck, “that back rubs help with cramps. It distracts the brain, to have another bundle of sensory nerves to think about.”

“Where did Sam learn that?” Castiel asks. Her voice is still low.

“Stanford. Her girlfriend, Jess.”

“Oh.”

Castiel rolls her shoulders and rocks forward. Dean’s hands fall away to let Castiel stand. The first thing Castiel’s eyes fall on are the bloodied sweatpants and underwear.

“I’m sorry that I ruined your pants,” Castiel says. Dean snorts.

“Cas, we’ve gotten worse blood stains than that out of clothes. Don’t worry about it.”

Castiel does worry about it though. She worries because it’s physical proof of how little Castiel understands this body and how ill suited she is to take care of it and really, why on earth did she think that she could handle humanity at all?

Castiel starts putting on the fresh clothes Dean got her. She can feel Dean watching her.

The bathroom is still humid from the shower and everything in Castiel vibrates with nervous energy.

“I’m…” Castiel wipes a hand across her upper lip, which is starting to bead with sweat. “I need to get out of…need to go for a walk.”

“Your hair is wet.”

“I need to walk.”

“Okay.” If Dean is surprised she keeps it masked. “Can I come with?” Castiel glances over. “I’m not going to be sleeping,” Dean adds. She has her shoulders hunched in slightly.

“Yes, all right,” Castiel says. She’s too wearied to wonder at Dean’s change in attitude. It seems wiser to just accept it.

So they slip on shoes and jackets and Dean asks Castiel to scribble out a note letting Sam know where they’ve gone.

It takes Castiel a moment to figure out why Dean can’t do it herself.

They walk down the steps in silence and cut across the playground. Soon they find the sidewalk and follow it past several buildings. Castiel’s pad rasps between her legs, but it doesn’t itch or rub. The night is cool but not cold. Whenever they pass the buzzing, orange glow of street lamps, Castiel glances over to watch the light move over Dean’s dirty blond hair and worn jacket. The dark circles under her eyes look pronounced.

“The cramps staying away?” Dean asks at one point.

“They’re manageable.”

“That’s good.” They walk a few more paces. “It’s kind of a rite of passage, your first period,” Dean speaks up, like she suddenly needs to fill the silence. “Welcome to being a woman. This is your life until you’re 60.”

“I’m not a woman.” Castiel doesn’t know why she says it. Nor why she stops. Dean stops too, and turns around to look at Castiel. A dog barks somewhere in the distance.

“My vessel…my body… _Jenny_ was a woman. This,” Castiel gestures loosely. “This is not me. This is a body that I hijacked. I am not a woman.”

“Okay,” Dean says. Her posture and tone is all careful neutrality.

“It’s only that it didn’t mind before,” Castiel’s eyes skitter across Dean. Her hands are turning into fists. “You and Sam assumed things and I let it go. But really Dean, think about it. Why would angels have genders or sexes? We don’t reproduce. We’re not even _physical_. But it didn’t matter if you called me ‘she’ because we always had bigger problems and because I _knew_ what I was when I had my Grace and my wings. I didn’t need to rely on some human language to recognize it.”

Dean is staring.

“But now it _does_ matter because I don’t…how am I supposed to know what I am now? You imply that because I have breasts I’m a human woman, when I spent eons as a wavelength of light before your planet even existed. Why am I supposed to suddenly be a woman just because I ended up in this vessel?”

“Okay, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean anything by it,” Dean offers slowly. “No one said you had to be anything.”

“No, no, I have to be a human now,” Castiel’s voice is catching. “And you people keep _rules_ and humans have _bodies_ and I’m supposed to take care of this one now because Jenny is gone and I don’t know anything about how to do it and I don’t think I can…” Castiel coughs and turns away slightly because she’s about to cry and it’s still not something she can’t quite handle.

Several seconds pass before Castiel hears a “goddamnit” and boots shuffle against the pavement. Dean coalesces as a solid line of warmth. She wraps her arms around Castiel’s shoulders and her forehead presses against her temple.

For nearly a minute, Castiel chokes out small, pathetic sounds and Dean grips at her.

“Okay,” Dean mutters after a while. “Okay. Cas? You listening?”

Castiel nods once. Her vision is blurring.

“I know exactly who you are, okay? You’re named Castiel and you dragged my sorry ass out of Hell. You rebelled against Heaven because for some reason you believed in humanity and free will and me and Sam. You brought my baby sister out of the Cage—“

“I left behind her soul.”

“Shush. You screwed up massively and then you beat yourself up trying to fix it. You’re a complete badass and still get gooey over babies. You survived in Purgatory way longer than you should have because you’re so damn smart that it’s terrifying.” Dean readjusts her grip around Castiel. “And you just lost your Grace and you’re trying to figure out humanity—and it’s hard, Cas, it’s really, really hard—and even in the middle of all that you decide to get me flowers even though I’ve been a grade A dickwad to you. So you’re…” Here Dean huffs a laugh and it sounds suspiciously wet. “You’re still you. And you’re gonna be okay. Sam and I are going to make sure of that. Okay?”

Castiel nods again.

Dean exhales.

***

When they come back to the apartment, the sky has paled slightly. Dean throws the bloodied sleeping bag in the tub to soak. She fetches an extra blanket and pillow from the pile in the corner of the living room and gets Castiel set up with them. Castiel doesn’t protest. She lays her head on the pillow and is dimly aware of Dean sitting a few feet away. She’s asleep within minutes.

***

Castiel doesn’t like this one very much.

**Castiel witnesses a murder**

It hadn’t been Cain and Abel but that didn’t make it any better. Almost worse, because there had been no demons nudging people in the wrong direction, no Lucifer whispering sweet lies into anyone’s ears.

There _had_ been a separate death precluding the murder. Castiel knew that much, because it was all anyone in the village was talking about.

“Eaten by a cave lion,” they said. “And his friend didn’t try to help. They might have fought it off together but that coward ran and saved his own hide.”

Said coward was currently in his hut, curled up next to the wall and trying to forget the sound a human made when it was being eaten alive. He could hear his friend’s screams and it made him shudder and groan into his hands.

Castiel had been standing in the hut. Xe hadn’t meant to stop, but all the souls in this village had been flashing such uneasy shades that xe couldn’t help but investigate. Xe’d always been too curious for xir own good, xe would have to admit later.

When the dead friend’s lover arrived at the door of the hut, the man didn’t seem surprised.

He seemed even less surprised when the lover strode across the hut without a word and sank a knife into the man’s gut. The murderer and the victim did not break eye contact as the man died. The man didn’t make any sound either. He just looked innumerably sad, as compared to the lover’s wild grief.

Castiel left before the reaper arrived.

Like xe said, xe doesn’t like that memory very much.

***

Castiel opens her eyes, only to squinch them shut immediately. The sun pouring through the window has the look of late morning. Castiel rolls over on her stomach and finds two bare feet.

They belong to Dean, who is propped against the wall with the laptop on her thighs. She has damp hair and the same dark circles under her eyes. Music with a bouncy tune and a drawling vocalist plays from the laptop’s speakers. Sam must be in the kitchen, because Castiel can hear clattering and sizzling. That’s when the smell hits Castiel’ nose and she sits up with a loud growl of her stomach.

Dean glances up from the laptop.

“Sam’s making bacon and french toast,” she says. Her smile looks careful.

“Oh,” Castiel manages, because she’s concentrating on how the smell of cooking meat is so strong she can all but taste it. Hunger, she notes distantly, is an amazing sensation.

“Hey Cas,” Sam calls from the kitchen. “You alright?”

Castiel glances over at Dean, who ducks her head without breaking eye contact.

_I told her. Sorry._

Castiel shrugs.

_I don’t mind. I expected you to._

“Yes,” Castiel calls back. She sits up and digs the heels of her hands into her eyes. Splashes of color explode across the insides of her eyelids. There’s something gratifying in watching them, so Castiel keeps her hands pressed up against her eyeballs for an extra few seconds. When she lowers her hands, she finds Dean watching her with crinkles at the edges of her eyes.

“Having fun with that?” she asks.

“A bit,” Castiel admits.

“You like splotches of color, there’s this stuff that’ll—“

“No giving Cas acid,” Sam barks from the kitchen. Dean tilts her head back and blows a loud raspberry.

“You’re boring!” she shouts.

“You really think that’s a good idea?” Sam demands.

“It’s part of the human experience!” Dean says.

“I’ve watched humans take psychedelic drugs,” Castiel chimes in. “It looked perturbing.”

“Naw, you have to experience it,” Dean waves one hand.

“ _Dean Winchester_.”

“Which you won’t be doing ever. Don’t do drugs, Cas, it’ll make your brain melt.” Dean scrunches her nose at Castiel, and Castiel’s mouth pulls into a smile. She’s proud of herself that it’s so clear that Dean is joking about drugs making her brain melt.

Castiel stands and goes to the bathroom.

When she pulls down her underpants, she stares for a few seconds at the streak of red on the pad. Then she rips it off, puts it in the plastic bag acting as their trashcan, and finds the package of pads sitting conspicuously within arm’s reach. These are yellow, and when Castiel puts one in place, she can tell that it’s smaller and thinner. She also finds a bottle of Advil and preemptively swallows two of them.

When Castiel emerges from the bathroom, Dean has abandoned the laptop. Her voice mingles with Sam’s as they discuss something about when to flip a french toast.

Castiel pauses in the living room, where Sam and Dean still can’t see her. After last night’s mess, something tentative and bright bobs in her ribcage, and she unthinkingly clutches at her chest while her toes wriggle against the carpet. Her wings would be extended to their fullest right now.

“Cas, do you want strawberry or banana?” Sam calls out.

“I don’t know.” Castiel walks into the kitchen. Dean is inspecting a pan sputtering with bacon grease. Sam has the refrigerator open and a carton of huge strawberries in one hand.

“Both, then,” Sam lets the refrigerator door slam shut.

“Why are you making breakfast?” Castiel asks. Usually, they’ve been eating whatever food presents itself in the morning.

“I wanted to,” Sam grins as she starts washing the strawberries. “I like doing this.” And then, for no reason Castiel can gather, Sam casts a furtive glance at Dean. Dean catches it and glances back. Castiel can tell they’re caught up in one of those silent conversations. Castiel would bet that their souls are flickering in tandem right now; it had always fascinated her to watch it before.

Castiel looks away to let them converse in peace. Her eyes fall on four pots lined up on the counter that is adjacent to the window. Three are still empty, of course, but the fourth one’s deep purple flowers catches the light quite prettily. Castiel finds a cup in the cabinet and fills it with water so she can sprinkle it over the soil in each of the pots. She takes a moment to stroke the African violet’s fleshy green leaves.

Twenty minutes later, the three of them sit cross-legged on the living room floor with plastic plates heaped with french toast and bacon. Sam must have been planning this, because she has a collection of condiments arranged on a fourth plate, all of them newly opened.

“Syrup is a classic,” Dean explains, squirting a fat puddle on her plate. She uses her right hand, and Castiel watches how her grip on the syrup bottle is slightly different than it would be is she had five fingers. But it works. “Butter too,” Dean hands the syrup over to Castiel. “And jelly I guess.” She points. “But peanut butter, Sam? And honey?”

“Peanut butter and honey are amazing,” Sam says stoutly, smearing the former across her pancakes.

Castiel looks between her plate and the bottle of syrup.

“C’mon,” Dean says around a mouthful of food. “This is human wisdom we’re passing on to you. Syrup and french toast are practically God’s gift to humanity.”

“I don’t think He created syrup and french toast by His own hand,” Castiel points out, but she obliges Dean by squirting a quarter-sized dollop onto her plate.

“Good lord.” Dean sets down her plate, reaches over, and clamps her hand over Castiel’s to force a river of syrup out. Castiel isn’t concentrating on the frightening amount of syrup accumulating on her plate. She’s more focused on the warmth and solidity of Dean’s hand. The fact that she can hear Dean’s breath and see her eyelashes turn gold in the sunlight. She realizes that she’d been afraid that last night had been a fluke. Something relaxes in her chest at the realization that it wasn’t.

“There,” Dean pulls her hand away.

“She’s going to have a sugar rush,” Sam observes wryly, holding her hand out. Castiel hands over the bottle of syrup.

“If you’re going to put your foot down on the acid then this is the next best thing,” Dean shrugs and picks her plate back up. Sam gives Dean look of such exasperated fondness that Castiel drops her eyes. She takes a careful bite of the syrup-smothered toast, chews slowly, then swallows. She blinks

“Eh?” Dean nudges her with her elbow.

“This is amazing,” Castiel admits.

“Damn straight,” Dean says.

It’s a little transcendental, Castiel thinks. She’s sitting with her knees just brushing both Dean’s and Sam’s, she’s eating warm, sweet, savory food, and Sam and Dean are chatting about nothing of importance. Castiel cleans off her plate with the sense that they could do this every morning and Castiel would be content.

Long after they’ve finished their food, when the conversation has drifted through such varied topics as the Cubs (some sports teams, Castiel deduces) and whether one can grow a tree from a peach pit (Sam is willing to try) they start gathering their plates and tackling the mess in the kitchen. Sam sets Castiel to drying the dishes, Dean hands to her, which is probably safest.

At one point, Castiel accepts a dripping fork, rubs her towel across it, and nearly jumps out of her skin when something shatters. She jerks her head around to find Dean staring down at the mug’s still-spinning shards.

“I lost my grip,” Dean says. Her voice is small. Her right hand is still half extended in front of her.

“They were cheap,” Sam bustles in with a broom and dustpan (Castiel does not remember them having said broom and dustpan). “Dean. It’s fine, we still have three.”

“No, right.” Dean’s right hand finally sinks back to her side. “Let me—“

“I got it.” And it’s true; in three efficient sweeps, Sam has cleared the kitchen floor of the majority of the mug’s shards.

“Sorry,” Dean says.

“I said it’s fine,” Sam repeats. “Did I get all of it?”

“I think so.”

Dean and Castiel watch Sam dump the dustbin’s contents into the loose trash bag.

“That looks full,” Dean steps forward. “I’ll take it out.” She takes the bag from Sam, doesn’t bother tying it, and trudges out of the front door.

Castiel looks down at the sink. She hears Sam exhale, like she’d been holding her breath.

“Is she going to be alright?” Castiel asks. It’s a silly question.

Sam rubs a hand on the back of her neck; she’s still watching the front door.

“The wounds themselves have healed up tolerably well,” she says. “The stitches are out. Nothing got infected.” Sam cuts her gaze over to Castiel. “But she’s lost a lot of her nerve endings and motor control. I’ve been watching her relearn how to do basic things but. Y’know. I wish she’d go to a physical therapist.”

“How does she drive?”

“She doesn’t. Not yet.”

Castiel blinks.

“Hunting?” she presses.

Sam gives a humorless laugh. “If she still had a thumb, maybe. She’ll need to practice handling a gun. Might need prosthetics.”

“I don’t—“ Castiel pauses, because she’s not sure what she’s trying to say. That she wishes Dean hadn’t lost her right hand? That she regrets postponing giving Dean a new hand? That she’s not sure what a Dean who can’t drive and can’t hunt is going to do with herself? None of that seems worth saying.

“Is that why you got the apartment?” Castiel asks instead.

“Mm.” Sam picks up the paper towel she’d been using to wipe down the countertop. “Not one of my better plans.”

“It was a good idea,” Castiel says. Sam throws a small smile over her shoulder. But it’s not the face-crinkling one she had on earlier, and that makes Castiel’s heart sink.

***

They fall into a kind of rhythm the next few days.

Dean continues to gain color and strength, even if the circles under her eyes remain as dark as ever. Sometimes Sam goes out to run errands, and sometimes someone goes with her. Other times, Castiel and Dean stay in the apartment and Dean will do things like teach Castiel how to play gin rummy. And when Sam comes back, she joins in and Castiel listens to Sam and Dean “shoot the shit,” as Dean calls it. Castiel likes that best, when she can sit and listen to them bat words between them the way they’ve been doing it their whole lives. It makes everything else feel manageable.

Then there’s the night when Sam, Castiel and Dean are all driving back from errands. Castiel is in the back seat with the bags of things like toilet paper and dish soap. She’s watching the houses and cracked sidewalks flow past the window when Sam slams on the breaks.

“Fucking hell,” Dean yelps.

“Look!” Sam points. Castiel and Dean crowd to their windows.

“What?” Castiel is the first to ask.

“It’s a _foldable table_.”

Castiel can see a brown square of what looks like plastic and metal leaning against a tree, and yes it has one leg sticking out into the air.

“Ok.” Dean draws the word out.

“I’m taking it,” Sam clacks the door open. The Impala is still rumbling.

“You can’t steal a table,” Dean grabs at Sam’s sleeve.

“It’s being thrown away, it’s right next to the trash bags. C’mon, that’s curbside treasure.”

Castiel is swiftly loosing ground in this conversation, and can only watch while Sam grabs the table, hauls it over to the car, and opens the back door.

“Okay if you share the back seat for two blocks?” Sam asks.

“Sam, we’re not keeping that,” Dean’s voice has become authoritative.

“We don’t stay in the apartment, we throw it away,” Sam starts easing the table into the backseat. Castiel scoots over to the opposite window. “Until then, I’m tired of countertops in the kitchen being the only elevated, flat surfaces.

“I…” Dean twists around in her seat. “I bet it’s crawling with STDs.”

“Clorox wipes, Dean,” Sam nearly sings. The foldable table is secured, Sam rounds to the front seat, and they pull away from the curb. Sam looks like she might start dancing in her seat. Dean opens and closes her mouth like she’s still processing what just happened.

Castiel tries not to touch the table because Sam had told her what STD meant, and she doesn’t want to take risks.

They do keep the table in the end, after Sam washes it twice in the parking lot, at Dean’s insistence.

***

The period gets less intense over the days, and by the fifth day, the stains on Castiel’s pads are rusty brown instead of poppy red.

After changing into a fresh pad that night, Castiel wanders into the kitchen, where Sam is standing in front of the countertop with the laptop. She’s scrolling through search results. When Castiel catches a glimpse of the search bar, she finds “prosthetics in central Illinois.”

That gives her pause.

“Hey Cas,” Sam glances over at her. The window blinks out of view. “What’s up?”

“Sam.” Castiel pauses. “Is it true that Advil is addictive?”

Sam gives her an odd expression.

“I mean. Possibly,” she starts, before comprehension dawns on her face. “Oh, Cas, you mean for your cramps?”

“I found a magazine article,” Castiel says stiffly. She senses that she’s just said something foolish.

“It’s possible, yeah, but I think you’ll be okay if you stick to the instructions on the bottle.” Sam sticks her hands in her pockets and leans against the countertop.

“In case you were wondering,” she continues. “I’ve been kicking myself over not remembering that you’d start getting periods.”

“Well,” Castiel shrugs. “Between defecation and basic first aid, you were bound to forget something.”

“Right, right.” Sam rubs at the back of her neck. “Um, Dean also mentioned the other stuff you guys talked about.”

“Oh.” The back of Castiel’s neck grows hot. She gets the distinct sense that this is going to be a _discussion._ “I didn’t—It’s not that important right now—“

“Hey, no, it’s important,” Sam interrupts. “I just want to know, do you prefer we stop referring to you as a girl?”

“I don’t know,” Castiel’s hands grip at her elbows.

“We could stop using feminine pronouns,” Sam offers.

“I don’t know what you’d use instead,” Castiel lets her burst of frustration show by scowling at the floor. “If I’m thinking in modern English, then I refer to myself as a she in my own head because that’s how Jenny thought of herself, and that’s what you and Dean call me. And it’s…it’s odd because I don’t really think of myself as a ‘she’ but the language…” Castiel shrugs. “That’s what’s available.”

Sam studies Castiel for a moment.

“A lot of people don’t feel completely like men or women,” she says. “And you shouldn’t feel pressured into being one or the other, if that’s not right.”

“Contemporary American culture places deep importance on a binary gender system,” Castiel points out a little dully. “If I’m to be living in it—“

“I know,” Sam says, her voice lower. “Believe me, I know first hand. But Cas, that’s really not a reason for you to be something you’re not. It’s not like you’d be the first.”

Castiel blinks.

“I’m not saying that everyone we come across is going to use the right words or have the best attitude,” Sam pushes. “But you’re going to be traipsing around in that body for a lifetime. And you should be at peace with it. That’s…that’s important. To me, that’s important.”

Castiel closes her mouth, licks her lips.

“I don’t have any quarrel with this body,” she says instead. “I don’t want to change it.”

“No, right, it’s up to you,” Sam promises. “Listen, there’s some good web sites you should read. We can take a look, okay?”

“I’d.” Castiel licks her lips briefly. “I’d like that.”

“Cool,” Sam is grinning again. “That’s really—“ and then she cuts herself off when she steps forward and envelopes Castiel in her arms.

Castiel is getting better at hugs, and only stiffens slightly before reciprocating the action. It’s nice, she admits. Sam is eternally warm and solid, and she smells a little bit sweet and a little bit musky.

“Sorry,” Sam is muttering. “I’m just really proud of you.”

“Proud of me?” Castiel pulls away slightly and squints up at Sam.

“Yeah. You’re doing so well.” Sam’s expression makes Castiel _ache_ to see her soul. And the pit that forms in her stomach at that thought, at the recollection that Castiel will never see a soul again, doesn’t make her feel like she’s doing well at all.

Castiel huffs and buries her face back into Sam’s chest. Sam’s arms tighten across her back.

“That was so after school special I’m hearing soft piano music,” Dean’s voice comes from the kitchen entrance.

“Dean Winchester,” Sam calls out without loosening her grip on Castiel. “Cas and I are having a very nice hug and you can either join or keep your big mouth shut.”

“Yeah, no thanks, I might get cooties,” Dean says. Castiel shifts her face and catches a peek of Dean’s face. And she can’t say for sure, but it looks…extremely soft.

But then there’s Dean’s rolling her eyes good-naturedly and maybe Castiel was imagining things.

***

**Castiel witnesses the Son**

When the Son stepped to earth and became Yeshua, he burnt like a star down there. Castiel half expected the earth to catch fire. (In a way, maybe it did.) The Son didn’t spend too long among the humans, only a little more than 30 revolutions of the planet around the sun. Nearly the entire time the angels watched, rapt.

They knew full well that this was the great central arc of the Story. They’d be fools not to stand witness. Even the higher order of the angels deigned to turn their heads away from the heavenly throne long enough to watch the Son. It was a strange time; normal rules didn’t seem to apply.

Castiel watched the events with Anael. Anael liked it best when Yeshua acted human. Xe laughed and spun sparks when Yeshua escaped his parents, and again when he destroyed that market in the temple. When Yeshua got sarcastic with people asking nettling questions or laughed at ridiculous jokes, Anael’s good humor radiated from xir.

Castiel too watched Yeshua, because this was the closest xe’d get to seeing xir Father. Castiel examined the humans too. The sick and stooped, the angry and desperate, the hopeful and sad. Castiel watched them spiral toward Yeshua’s light, and xe ached inside xir chassis for them.

Sometimes Castiel heard angels murmur that they still didn’t understand why the Son had bothered going down to this planet with its upright primates. There had to be a less messy way to fulfill the plan, some argued. Less complicated and less involved than taking the shape of a human and tripping through all the unpleasantness of it.

Castiel had a hard time understanding these arguments. Xe wondered if the angels didn’t see what the humans were doing down there in the light of their god. If they were ignoring the way that souls flared achingly bright and danced in frenzies.

When Castiel and Anael became restless of just watching, they took to stepping down to earth and wandering through Yeshua’s land. They devoted a full year inhabiting the bodies of a brother and sister and spent long evenings in public houses listening to merchants and bakers and shepherds discuss this talk of a new prophet, the Rabbi who supposedly talked to angels and healed the sick.

“It’s all rubbish,” a woman proclaimed. “Just people exaggerating.”

“Naw naw,” a man countered. “I heard this from my cousin. He saw it all with his own eyes, and he’s a man of his word. He’d never make this up.”

The woman looked wholly skeptical.

“Why do they resist the good news?” Castiel asked Anael in a low voice from where they were ensconced in a far corner of the room.

“It’s in their nature,” Anael replied. “Why else do you think the Son has to do all these miracles?”

Castiel pondered this then found that it made the humans somehow more endearing. Stubborn, tactile, creatures.

Once, Castiel and Anael drew up the nerve to attend one of Yeshua’s sermons being given in a tiny village’s central square. They stayed near the back, as if that would shroud their wings large enough to encircle the whole village. Yeshua glanced at them twice; both times his eyes sparked and his mouth quirked at its edge. It took Castiel a moment to recognize that Yeshua was laughing.

Castiel had always respected and loved the Son as a matter of course. This was the first time Castiel decided xe _liked_ Yeshua.

When they nailed the Son to the cross, the angels in Heaven wept for him. They also rejoiced. It was an odd time.

Castiel sat on the edge of the host and gazed at Yeshua, yes, but also the humans who mourned for him. Their grief was a black cloud above the land. Castiel stared and stared and pitied them so much that something properly snapped in xir chassis.

***

Castiel wakes up with an audible _hurk_. She stares up at the ceiling, then digs her fingers into her eyes. She wriggles out of the sleeping bag and goes to the bathroom to check that her pad hasn’t leaked. It hasn’t, but she changes it anyway because she’s feeling restless and distrustful.

She can’t remember what she was dreaming about.

After that, she wanders into the kitchen and roots a bottle of water from the refrigerator. She drinks it while staring out of a pitch-black window. Every few sips, she dribbles a few drops into the pots of soil. If she had Grace, she’d be able to say whether the seeds were starting to split and push out the hair-fine roots and seedlings. But from this vantage point, it looks like dead soil.

The scream startles Castiel into dropping her bottle.

It doesn’t take nearly as long this time for Castiel to figure out what’s going on, and instead of hiding in her sleeping bag, Castiel bolts from the kitchen and has to refrain from slamming open the bedroom door.

Dean must have been sitting on the other end of the room because she’s just now stumbling to a crouch next to Sam’s convulsing body.

“Get her hands,” Dean orders as soon as she sees Castiel, and Castiel obediently moves forward to grab at the flailing things. Sam is strong, even in her sleep, and Castiel has to struggle to keep them still.

“God, that helps,” Dean sighs the words. “I could only ever get a good grip on one of them.”

Castiel glances over, but Dean is turning her focus on Sam’s face.

“Hi Sammy girl,” Dean says in a firm voice, just this side of too loud. “Hi, hey, you need to wake up. Can you do that for me?”

Dean jostles at her sister’s shoulder, and Sam’s back arches. Castiel can all but smell the cooking flesh when she releases a guttural yowl. Castiel tries stroking at the soft skin of Sam’s inner wrist with her thumb. The pulse is too high.

“Damn it,” Dean glances over at Castiel. Her voice is low. “This is the second time this week. That’s not normal.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. Stress, probably.”

Castiel’s gut clenches.

“You want to try?” Dean asks.

“Try what?” Castiel asks dumbly.

“Waking her up.”

Castiel blinks.

Sam groans like she’s gagging through something. Dean’s face grows pinched, so Castiel leans forward, Sam’s wrists still encircled in her hands.

“Sam,” Castiel tries. She pauses and licks her lips. “Sam.” She should have something more to say. It’s her fault, ultimately, that Sam is in this position at all, isn’t it? Taking her hallucinations hadn’t been enough. And now Castiel can’t even offer her angelic powers anymore, just a human hand and a human voice, both of which feel especially worthless.

“Sam,” Castiel says for the third time. She lets go of one of Sam’s wrists and on impulse places two fingers on Sam’s brow. It’s like play-acting. “They’re not real. Wake up.”

That absolutely shouldn’t work.

It does anyway.

A little. Sam’s eyes, when they peel open, are bloodshot and far too wide. She stares at Castiel and her expression doesn’t suggest that she can see anything remotely familiar or comforting.

“Oh god,” she croaks.

“Sam?” Castiel tilts her head. Her hand falls away from Sam’s forehead. “What is it?”

“You don’t have a face.”

Dean and Castiel share a look, and then Dean edges into Sam’s line of view.

“Sam, do you feel awake?” Dean asks. Sam squinches her eyes shut, then shakes her head.

“Can you still see the Cage?”

A nod.

Dean exhales a “fuck” and ducks her head briefly before lifting it again.

“Hey Sammy?” she says. Sam shifts, opening her eyes and keeping them trained on her sister. Dean leans forward. “I know I probably look all kinds of wrong right now—“

“You’re all burnt,” Sam mutters.

“That’s fine. But I’m telling you right now that it’s not real. You’re in that dumb apartment on that dumb air mattress. Sam, look at me hon,” Sam, whose gaze had been drifting toward something in the corner of the room, refocuses on Dean.

“I’m fine,” Dean eases herself closer. “Don’t worry about me or Cas right now, ok? You just need to find your way back to us.” Sam lifts her chin, holds it there, then lets it come down in a slow nod. She screws her eyes tight again. Dean tugs the blanket up over Sam’s shoulders, muttering things that Castiel can’t quite hear.

“Is this normal?” Castiel whispers.

“No,” Dean bites out, also in a whisper. Her hand starts to moves in long strokes across Sam’s temple. “Not these days. Right after the wall came down, yeah, but it’s been run of the mill nightmares ever since you fixed things.”

Castiel bites at the inside of her cheek.

“How am I supposed to help now?” she asks.

“Can let go of her hand,” Dean nods. Castiel’s starts, then self-consciously lets her hand slide away from Sam’s wrist. “Mostly it’s physical presence though,” Dean frowns down at Sam. “That’s what usually works in the long haul.”

Castiel studies Sam’s back, then nods. “Alright.”

She’s seen enough people do this. But it’s still a little foreign to pull back the thick green blanket and slip her body in behind Sam’s. Castiel glances up at Dean for confirmation that she’s doing this correctly.

The expression she finds is hard to read. Castiel would like to ask Dean what she’s thinking, but then Dean also stretches out beside Sam—though she stays on top of the covers—and her face becomes mostly hidden from view.

Castiel drapes one arm over Sam’s side and can feel her shaking. Castiel sighs and presses her forehead against the back of Sam’s neck.

Sam releases a low whine and Dean says something to her.

Castiel isn’t sure how long they lie like that. Long enough for the sky visible through the window to lighten from the orange-gray of the streetlight night to dawn gray.

At some point Dean stops talking so much and settles with moving her hand across Sam’s skin. Sam cycles through episodes of shaking, of crying, of moaning, of lying perfectly still. Castiel holds on and wonders whether it’d be worth it to send a prayer heavenward.

And that makes her think.

“Sam,” she mutters.

Sam changes her position. Her eyes are closed but her head tilts to Castiel.

“Sam, did I ever tell you that I heard your prayers in Purgatory?” Out of the corner of her eye, Dean shifts.

Sam inhales and exhales slowly.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think I ever told you,” Castiel tilts her head closer to Sam’s ear, so she can murmur and still be heard. “They were good, Sam. They were comforting. I only wish I could have answered.”

“I rambled a lot,” Sam sighs.

“Those are the best kind,” Castiel promises. That’s when Castiel dares to look up and meet Dean’s eye. If Sam offers essays, then her sister always produces novels.

Used to produce novels.

Dean is picking at the blanket on which she’s lying but her jaw is visibly clenched.

“Sorry I didn’t try to save you from Purgatory earlier,” Sam’s voice comes out in wisps. “Dean too. I wasn’t okay. I don’t…” she pauses.

“That’s done,” Dean says. Her voice sounds thick. “You can let that go.”

“I can’t,” Sam sighs again.

“You remember what we talked about a few days ago?” Castiel asks. “Your guilt is part of what’s trapping you, Sam, I really think it is.” Dean inhales suddenly, but Castiel is focused on Sam’s face, which is slowly crumpling.

“There’s too much,” she mutters. “It’s hard.”

“I know,” Castiel leans forward and presses her lips against Sam’s forehead. “I know. We all know. But Sam?” Here Sam’s eyes crack open. “I’ll try if you’ll try.”

Sam’s next exhale shudders through her chest.

When she starts crying, the sounds come in wet, ungraceful inhales. Castiel keeps her forehead pressed to Sam’s temple and rides it out with her.

She’s not sure when, but at some point she falls asleep.

***

This is not a story.

**Castiel says goodbye**

Castiel stood in a stone archway and watched rain fall. The air was warm and it left her hair feeling heavy with moisture. She had no desire to move from the archway; the rain fell in fat drops and she had no way to cover herself. So Castiel contented herself with peering through the sheet of rain.

It didn’t seem odd to her that the only things that existed were her, the archway and the rain. Not until a figure began to coalesce on an invisible horizon. Castiel focused on it and tried to decide what it was.

When the figure became clear, Castiel jerked backwards and felt her breath catch.

A shape the size of a building, the size of a skyscraper, loomed over her. It had size but no shape. Flaming eyes ran along it. Several of them watched Castiel, and their attention was like a physical thing. Two impressions that resembled low, concentrated storm clouds extended from the figure and between them, Castiel could see a thrashing sun.

The figure throbbed with energy, the way Castiel supposed a star would throb. A low humming shook at Castiel’s bones and organs, and Castiel could hear deep rolls of Enochian. _Praises to the Lord_ , the figure sang. _Holy holy holy is He_.

Castiel remembered singing that once.

The figure bent and its wings extended so far that Castiel could not see the ends of them.

_Do not be afraid_ , they’d always had to tell the humans. They said it with good reason.

“I’m not afraid,” Castiel said.

Xe could hardly be afraid of xirself.

Castiel wondered whether this form was still tucked away in xir vessel—xir body—only inaccessible thanks to Castiel’s lack of Grace. Perhaps, like Anael, xe could find xir Grace and unfold this form again.

Castiel refocused on the figure—on xirself—when it sent out a limb of pure light. The light engulfed Castiel and she inhaled its essence like someone who had been drowning. It tasted like home.

Castiel couldn’t say how long she gulped at the light. Only that eventually, it withdrew. Castiel tilted xir head up at the sun-face of the figure and searched for…something. Recognition perhaps. Or pity or gentleness. But angels were not humans. Their faces weren’t for those things.

The figure straightened and turned away.

“Wait.” The word slipped from Castiel’s mouth but the figure didn’t respond. “No no. No no nononono.” Castiel lurched after the figure, only to stumble to a halt and realize that it had disappeared between one second and the next.

The rain—it must have been there the entire time—soaked through xir hair and clothing. Castiel didn’t notice it. Xe stared at the place where xir former self had been and experienced a profound emptiness somewhere in xir gut.

***

When Castiel cracks her eyes open, the sunlight sifting through the window is amber. It’s late morning, at least. Maybe noon.

Sam is sleeping. Her chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm and a bar of sunlight illuminates her face, turning her skin a golden honey color. She looks a little divine in that light.

Dean is lying on Sam’s other side. Her head is propped up on one hand. Castiel meets her eyes.

“Were you watching us sleep?” Castiel asks in a low voice.

“Nothing else to do,” Dean whispers back.

A car drives past the window. Dean rearranges herself.

“When was the last time you slept?” Castiel asks.

Dean purses her lips. Silence.

“Dean.”

“I’ve snatched a few hours here and there.”

“How many? How often?”

“You sound like Sam.” Dean rubs at her eyes. “Maybe eight total. Over the last five days.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“Cas, breaking bones and getting concussions are part of my daily job description. Healthy left a long time ago.”

“You’re not breaking any bones right now,” Castiel props herself up on her arms. “You haven’t had a hunt for months.”

It’s amazing how fast Dean’s face shutters.

“Okay, Cas,” she rocks to a sit. She starts easing to a stand.

“Dean, if you don’t want Sam waking up with you gone, you’ll lie right the hell back down,” Castiel hisses. The profanity rolls off her tongue with a pleasurable little snap.

Dean blinks. Then she lies back down.

She and Castiel stare at one another across Sam.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” Dean finally says.

“I’ve been around some bad influences.”

Dean snorts.

Castiel can’t fathom what she’s supposed to say next, and when the silence stretches for too long, she thinks that Dean is going to let the topic die. Which is why Castiel cocks her head when Dean says, “Been on one hunt since…remember those witches you had to save us from?” Dean is looking at Sam. “Was my fault they got us.”

“How?”

“Couldn’t fight them properly. My hand…” she rolls in her lips.

“If I remember properly, Sam was also captured.”

“They knocked her out,” Dean mutters. “Didn’t bother doing that with me. I couldn’t even grab a knife, much less shoot a gun. Tried throwing a punch but only so far you can get with bare knuckles. ‘Specially when two of them are missing.”

Castiel shifts to a sitting position.

“What happened to it?” she asks. It’s bold, and Dean twitches accordingly.

“I doesn’t make a good story.”

“I wasn’t asking for a good story.”

Dean lifts her face, sighs, and squints at the ceiling.

“You know about the gwyllgi?”

“That sounds Welsh.”

“Yeah, that’s where it was originally from. Big black dog from folklore. I mean almost the size of a horse big. It was picking off people on this hiking trail, in a park a little outside of this town.” Dean rubs at her nose. “Sam and I rolled in because there’d been four disappearances in this park in the last half year. We got in too late to do much investigating. I dropped Sammy off at the motel and I went to a bar. I uh. I got really drunk. And I decided to go into this park by myself.”

Castiel isn’t moving.

“No surprise the gwyllgi found me, honestly. Shoulda died. Just got my hand chewed off though. I mean I killed the thing, but it was pretty damn close. Managed to stay conscious enough to call Sam. Y’know what that kid did? Tracked my cellphone. Found me in the middle of that big damn park. Got me to the hospital and everything.” Dean tries smiling, but it comes out all twisted.

“Why did you go out there by yourself?” Castiel asks in a low voice.

“I was drunk.”

“No,” Castiel shakes her head. “You’ve been raised a hunter. Alcohol wouldn’t convince you to do something that blatantly foolhardy.”

Dean is blinking harder.

“I wasn’t okay, Cas,” her voice is halting. “I was really not…” she swallows. “I didn’t care.”

“Why not? Why weren’t you okay?”

“Cas don’t—“

“Were you blaming yourself for leaving me in Purgatory?” Castiel presses. “Feeling that Sam hadn’t saved you because you weren’t worthy of it?”

“Ever heard of tact, Cas?” Dean snaps wetly.

“You don’t need tact right now, you need to hear me tell you that none of that was your fault.” Castiel’s throat is growing thicker. “Dean, I didn’t realize what my decision would do.”

Dean looks at the ceiling. Her eyes glitter precariously.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says.

“Don’t apologize,” Dean grinds out.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Castiel orders. “Do you think that’s why you started getting lost in your own consciousness? Because I do. I think there’s a reason that you were trapped in a place that looked like Purgatory. It’s the same reason Sam still has nightmares of the Cage.”

Castiel stumbles into silence and waits for Dean to react somehow. She’s still staring at the ceiling.

“I kept walking.” Dean’s voice is thin and reedy. “This place that looked like Purgatory was massive. I kept walking through it and I never…I couldn’t ever go anywhere. I’d run myself into the ground and it didn’t mean anything.” She flicks her eyes down to Castiel. “The only time I felt okay was when I finally stopped.”

“When we found you,” Castiel says in a low voice. “You had chosen to represent yourself as a tree.”

Dean inhales and exhales once, slowly, like she’s afraid she’s going to topple something if she breathes too hard.

“The trees kept talking,” she says. “They had things in them.”

“What kinds of things?”

“I don’t. Know,” Dean muttered. “But they kept talking and they never knew what they were. You remember that?”

“The trees never spoke,” Castiel says.

Dean wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“So I’m crazy now?” she demands.

“Remember how I said Purgatory didn’t follow the usual rules of existence? Why would a living human soul experience it the same way as an angel? Or a vampire?” Castiel leans forward. “If you say you heard the trees, I believe you. What did they say?”

“I don’t know,” Dean groans. “I don’t know anything about this. I just…I can’t sleep anymore because if I go back _there_ I might take root again and I can’t do that to you. Can’t do that to Sammy. Dad always said only cowards…only cowards.” Dean slaps out coughs and her eyes are welling. “Oh god.”

“Shhh.” Castiel reaches out to Dean. “You know what we can do? Sam or I can take dream root. We’ll go in there with you. We’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“How do you know?” Dean demands. “How do you fucking _know_?”

“I don’t know for certain,” Castiel soothes. “But we’ll keep trying until we find something that works. Until you can sleep and still wake up, until Sam stops getting nightmares of the Cage. Until…” Castiel swallows. “Until I learn how to be a human.”

Dean covers her face with one hand.

Sam shifts. Castiel flicks her eyes down and finds Sam looking up at her sister.

Without a word, she levers herself up, crawls over Dean, and scoots her toward the middle of the mattress. “Your turn,” she says. To Cas: “Help me get her under the covers.”

“Stop,” Dean says nasally.

“Hang on,” Sam says. She and Castiel rearrange the green blanket so that it drapes over Dean. Sam then throws one arm over her sister and presses Dean’s back to her chest.

“Jesus Christ, Sam, we are _not_ spooning,” Dean scrubs at her eyes.

“Mm,” Sam buries her nose into the back of Dean’s neck. “Looks like it to me. What you see, Cas?”

Something in the air relaxes. It’s almost audible.

“You’re spooning,” Castiel announces solemnly.

“I hate both of you.”

“’K.” Sam’s eyes are drifting shut. “You guys can keep talking, by the way. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“How much did you hear?” Dean twists her head to try and see Sam.

“Enough to say I think Cas is right,” Sam exhales. “Cage. Purgatory. Hell. Face it, Dean, it’s pretty much a miracle that we’re as functioning as normally as we are.”

“’Cause hanging out with your dumbass sister and a fallen angel in bed is normal,” Dean huffs.

“I like the idea of dream root. I’ll see if we still have any,” Sam says.

“What if—“

“Dean,” Castiel says.

“What.”

Castiel leans forward and presses a kiss to Dean’s forehead. It’s a twin to the one she gave Sam last night.

Dean blinks at her, her freckles picked out by the sunlight. Sam peers over Dean’s shoulder, and she has creases at the corners of her eyes. Like roots. Or streams.

***

One last story:

**Castiel meets two souls**

One of them flickered sun-dappled green underneath the viscera and scorch marks. It still knew how to beat out the rhythm of a human heart.

The other spun gold and its corona filled the room in which its body stood. It still knew how bleed with hope.

They tore through the world like a pair of twin stars.

Castiel followed.


End file.
